My pulse is uniformly seventy to the minute.

I sought my wrist, found the artery, made allowance for its possible acceleration, began to count.
"What's the matter ?" asked Drake.
"Take my glasses," I muttered, trying to keep up, while speaking, my tally.

"Matches in my pocket.

Smoke the lenses.

I want to look at sun." With a look of stupefied amazement which, at another time I would have found laughable, he obeyed.
"Hold them to my eyes," I ordered.
Three minutes had gone by.
There it was--that for which I sought.