This brings us up to the early spring of this year of grace, 1921, which is what I have been aiming for all through this paragraph.
Quite without warning, I discovered along about the first of March that something ailed me; something was rocking the boat.

About my heart there was a sense of pressure, so it seemed to me, or else my imagination was at fault.

Mentally, I found myself--well, for lack of a better word to express it--logy.

Otherwise, in all physical regards, I felt as brisk and peart as ever I have, despite the circumstance of having reached the age when a great many of us are confronted by the distressing discovery that we are rapidly getting no younger.
Now when a man who has always enjoyed such outrageously perfect health as it has been my good fortune to enjoy takes note that certain nagging manifestations are persisting within him it is his duty, or least it should be his duty, to try to find out the underlying cause of whatever it is that distresses him and correct the trouble before it becomes chronic.
I did not get frightened--I trust I am not a self-alarmist--but I did get worried.

I made up my mind that I would not wait, as those who approach middle age so often do, for the medical examiner of an insurance company to scare me into sudden conniption fits.