He would lie down tired, and sleep a dreamless sleep, and each morning at a different hour this ghostly watchman, true as the tide itself, would silently call him.
Did the man's spirit haunt through the darkness the muddy river stairs; or had it knowledge of the ways of Nature?
Whatever the process, the man himself was unconscious of it.
In my own case my inward watchman is, perhaps, somewhat out of practice.
He does his best; but he is over-anxious; he worries himself, and loses count.

I say to him, maybe, "Five-thirty, please;" and he wakes me with a start at half-past two.

I look at my watch.

He suggests that, perhaps, I forgot to wind it up.

I put it to my ear; it is still going.
He thinks, maybe, something has happened to it; he is confident himself it is half-past five, if not a little later.