The sun was streaming into Cobb’s eyes; he was restless; he awoke. The room was empty, not a soul in sight, and he lay in his bed, all alone. How long he had lain there he could not tell, but he knew it must have been some time, for his bones felt sore, and he had a great desire to get up and stretch himself. The room was the same that he had entered the night before; of that he felt assured as he glanced around.

For some time he lay half awake and half asleep, his thoughts running in a most confused channel. In memory he wandered back to his old friends, Craft and Hathaway. He was living, but where were they? And his kindred, where were they? Dead! all of them! Not a single soul of all those whom he had known and associated with were living. Indeed, he was alone in the world! In his mind, once again he viewed the longings and cravings which he had cherished for a knowledge of what the world would be at a future day, and the vision materialized into a full knowledge that at last he had the power he so long had desired. What a wonderful experience! What a remarkable transition he had passed through! He had become a king, an emperor, a very god, for he had annihilated time, and passed, in a second, over many score of years. Was he to find such changes in the world as he had anticipated? Was he to be satisfied with things as he should find them now? Had he thrown away a life of quiet enjoyment and comparative ease, among his friends and kindred, for a new life in which he would be dissatisfied, miserable? Was the light worth the candle? All these and many more were the questions he asked himself as he lay there awaiting the approach of some one from whom he might possibly receive an answer. He could lie there no longer; he must arise and be about. Had they all deserted him, that he was thus left alone? No, that was hardly possible; they would soon come. He rose upon his elbow and looked about the room.

No sooner had he raised himself in his bed than a door opened and a man entered and quickly approached his bed.

It was Lyman, and Cobb instantly recognized him, though he appeared to be so differently dressed from the style which he was accustomed to seeing that it made him doubt his identity.

Approaching close to him, Lyman looked into his eyes with a searching expression, as if endeavoring to fathom his very thoughts.

Still upon his elbow, Cobb returned his gaze and asked:

“Well! is it time to get up? Why do you look at me in such a manner?” and a feeling of fear ran through him that he might be laboring under a hideous dream, and that he was not only alive again, but had never been dead to the world, as he thought.

The sorrowful expression of Lyman’s eyes disappeared, and a glad smile parted his lips.

“Thank God, my boy, you are yourself again! We have watched you for a long time, hoping for this return to consciousness. Do you indeed know me?” and he leaned over and took the other’s hand.

“Of course I know you. Have I been sick? have I lain here long? Has everything been a dream? or am I awake in the new era?” and as he asked the question, he sat up in bed.

“You are laboring under no delusion, Mr. Cobb,” Lyman replied, smiling at the man’s eagerness on the subject. “You are the same man whom we rescued from the pedestal of Sutro’s statue, and you are still in the land of the living, after years of inanimation. You have had a long and most severe struggle for your life since being brought here on the night we dug you out of the pedestal. It is now the 16th of September, almost three months since your release, and you have lain upon your bed or sat in your chair nearly all the time. Your mind has wandered, and you have known no one until to-day. We have sat near you for hours, and for hours have listened to the history of your life.”

As he ceased speaking, he arose and filled a glass with wine, and gave it to the other, saying that it was necessary that he should get well as soon as possible, now that he was himself again.

“And I have lain here since June 22d?” Cobb asked again.

“Yes; lain, sat, and walked—for you did walk a very little of late.”

“It is strange! But, really, is it A.D. 2000?”

“In truth, it is.”

“And Rawolle; where is he?”

“Out; but he will soon be back, for he has not left your side, except for brief periods, since we brought you here. One of us has always been near you.”

Cobb looked at him a moment, and then asked:

“Will you please explain why you are wearing such outlandish clothing, for it is entirely different from anything I have been accustomed to seeing,” and he surveyed the other from head to foot.

Lyman smiled, and took a step backward that a better view of him might be obtained.

“All in good time, my boy,” he answered. “Suffice it to say that this is the custom, or style, now. We have got a full suit for you as soon as you are able to put it on.”

Saying this, he went across the room and threw open the doors of a wardrobe, disclosing a number of articles of wearing apparel hanging therein.

To Cobb, he presented an appearance quite out of the general order of dress, and an aspect quite comical; yet, the more he looked at him, the more he was inclined to admit that his dress was becoming, and, no doubt, very comfortable. It seemed to him that he had seen styles similar to that his friend wore, depicted in the old prints as worn by his forefathers. The main features were: tight-fitting knee-breeches, but coming a little lower down than those of the old style; black silk stockings and low-cut shoes, the shoes having large gilded buckles upon the instep; vest low in front, but closing at the neck; close-fitting cutaway coat without tails, unbuttoned in front, but held together by frogs; neither collars nor cuffs, but in their place small and neat rufflings. There was no shirt-front visible.

His glance was but momentary, yet it was long enough for him to note these few changes and minor details in Lyman’s dress.

“Come, Cobb,” said Lyman, “get up and dress. I will bring you your clothing.”

With the aid of Lyman, it was but a few minutes ere he was thoroughly arrayed and fitted out in the prevailing style of the day.

Handing him a fine pair of boots of very light material, Lyman said:

“Put these on, for it is wet outside; the low shoes are worn only during dry weather.”

Putting on the boots, which fitted him perfectly, Cobb surveyed himself in the glass. He liked the change from the old style. It was indeed a comfortable substitute for the heavy and loose-fitting trousers and long-tailed coats formerly worn. No collars to cut one’s ears, nor cuffs to hang down over one’s hands. It was handsome withal, and permitted a free action of the limbs.

“Is this now the prevailing style?” he asked Lyman.

“Yes. No other style of clothing but this is worn by men,” was the answer.

“And how long has this been the custom?”

“A great many years—how many I cannot say. It has been the style since I was born. I believe I have heard that it was inaugurated in 1910. Certain gentlemen in the city of Chicago were the first to start the movement, as near as I remember it. Anyway, the change was made, and now it is the only style of gentlemen’s wearing apparel in the United States. Of course, there are certain modifications of it, as for summer and winter, and in certain trades, but the one main idea is adhered to, namely: close-fitting clothing and knee-breeches, with shoes for dry and boots for wet weather.”

“I think it a jolly change. It seems like old times, when I dressed for mounted duty with my troop.” And Cobb took a turn around the room, bringing back the memories of the days when he had, in his top-boots, swung the belle of a frontier town.

At this moment Rawolle entered the room, and started at seeing Cobb up and dressed. With unfeigned pleasure he rushed up to him and grasped his hand, crying:

“Cobb, I congratulate you on your return to consciousness!”

“Pray don’t mention it. I am just as glad to be up and around as you are to see me.”

“And how do you feel? Have you had a good rest?”

“Good rest! Well, I like that! I should say I have. I hope you don’t think a man can sleep three months without being satisfied, do you?”

“No. You ought to be ready to get up by this time, I must admit; but that is not to the point: are you in condition to start for Washington to-day?”

“Yes; any time you desire.”

“How glad I am!” Rawolle quickly returned. “I have been away from home so long that I am most anxious to get back to my family. I will look into the matter and see if we cannot go to-day. In the meantime, look over the morning paper,” and he tossed the paper which he had in his hand to him.

“Yes,” said Lyman, going over to the other side of the room and taking up a large grip; “busy yourself with the news while I get our traps into shape for traveling.”

Cobb took the paper as it fell into his hand, and opened it. It was a very large daily, and seemed to contain a vast amount of information. Looking at the heading of the paper, he saw that it was the “Daily American.” At the first glance over it, he perceived that it was quite different from the papers which he had seen in former days. Leaning back in his chair, he carefully looked it over.

It was not headed San Francisco, as he thought it would be, but America; and the date was the 16th of September. Where was America? he asked himself; he knew of no such place. It must be some new and very large city close by, else the paper could not have reached them so soon. No paper that he had ever before seen contained the amount of news that this did. There was news from all parts of the world; not scant and close-cut, either, but full and elaborate accounts. What appeared to him as very peculiar was that each column had its own heading, as, “From Europe,” “From Asia,” “From South America,” etc. Another thing that appeared very remarkable was that there were no advertisements, nor time-tables of transportation, nor lists of places of amusement. In fact, there was nothing local in the paper that he could ascertain. It was just such a combination of news as would as quickly interest a man in New York as one in San Francisco. He also noticed that the printing was peculiar; that but two or three kinds of type were used in the body of the paper, and that the ends of lines were not, as formerly, flush with the ruling of the next column.

All this was so very strange to him that he was on the point of asking for information from Lyman, when his eyes met the word “Cobb,” in big headline letters. Of course he must read what was said of him before asking any questions regarding the paper in which the account was given. He read:

“COBB!

“S. F., 15, 22 D.—The physicians in charge of Junius Cobb report no change in their patient during the day. Food is administered at regular intervals, and taken with apparent relish by the sick man. Mr. Cobb has gained rapidly in flesh, and his health seems to be almost perfect, save the one remarkable condition of insensibility to surrounding objects. The physicians in charge have strong hopes that another week will bring forth great and marked improvement, and that the man’s mind will return to him.”

And again, further on:

“JUNIUS COBB.

“Washington, 15, 11 D.—In the Cabinet meeting to-day, the President said, referring to the peculiar condition of Junius Cobb, the Lieutenant taken from the tomb in San Francisco last June, ‘that if his condition did not soon show some signs of improvement, he thought that it would be to the best interests of the man, as well as the nation, that he should be brought to Washington for treatment.’ He further said, ‘that all of the apparatus used by Cobb in his experiment had been received at the State Department, and was there held until Cobb would be able to arrive and explain its use.’”

And still further on:

“LIEUTENANT COBB!

“S. F., 15, 5 D.—The excitement in the case of Lieutenant Cobb has not in the least abated. Crowds of people have, for weeks, endeavored to gain admission to his room, but have been prohibited by the doctors. The Lieutenant has shown wonderful vitality in passing through the fever which followed his resurrection from the dead. Rawolle, the President’s messenger, has shown most commendable skill in keeping his patient quiet and holding back the crowds of reporters who wished to gain admission.”

He dropped the paper, closed his eyes, and sat in a kind of dreamy state, revolving over the extracts which he had read. The world had not forgotten him yet. He was still an object of interest, and his condition was the subject of special telegrams to the papers. What would be the next dispatch sent out to the world, when it was found that he was up and in his right mind; was able to start for the capital city—was, in fact, on his way? How would he be received when he reached there? Whom would he meet? and what would his future be?

His reveries were broken into by the entrance of Rawolle, who took a telegram from his pocket, saying: “We are going to-day. I have just received this dispatch, and will read it to you:

Cobb listened attentively to the reading of the message.

“Miles, Secretary of State; and the same initials,” he mused. Then aloud:

“Is this Miles, who is signed here as Secretary of State, any relation to Brigadier-General Miles, of 1887?”

“Not to Brigadier-General Miles, Mr. Cobb, but to General Miles, who died in 1918. He is a great-grandson of that noble and illustrious general.”

“And who is President now?”

“Emory D. Craft, of Illinois.”

“Craft, did you say?” Cobb quickly asked, and he went back to his old friend of the artillery, who had so nobly aided him in his work.

“Yes; but why does it seem to interest you so much? you do not know him;” and Rawolle looked puzzled.

“Perhaps not,” smiling; “but I may have known his great-grandfather; in fact, I may possibly have been an intimate friend of his—who knows?”

“True. Your status is so different from that of any other man, that I would not be surprised if you had been his bosom friend.”

Then turning to Lyman, he continued:

“Come; it is time we were attending to business. Let us go at once and see about our transportation and check. Cobb will excuse us for a few minutes, will you not?” to the latter.

“Certainly. By all means get our tickets as soon as possible, for I will then feel that we are soon to be on the road.”

Saying this, he lighted a cigar and watched them depart.

A few moments later he went to the window and pulled aside the heavy lace curtains and gazed out upon the busy street below him. This was his first view of the outside world, in daylight, since 1887. A hundred and thirteen years ago he had had rooms at this very same hotel. Was it possible that he was not dreaming? Was he, in fact, alive and well, and again standing in a place that had known him so many years ago—that had been his home at a time so long since that every mortal man who then lived was now dead and crumbling into dust? His thoughts wandered back to the years long past, to his old friends, to the happy days passed in their society; and then to the darling girl whom he had left in Duke’s Lane—his betrothed. Alas! they were no more! But he: he was here, and alone in the world!

So many years must have made a great change in the history of his country and in the manners and condition of the people. Until he should have learned them, he would be practically a stranger in a strange land. He remembered how he had sat, those many nights before entering the pedestal on Mt. Olympus, and wondered upon the future, and what that future would bring forth to him, if he was fortunate enough to survive the ordeal and live again. He remembered with what delight he had anticipated coming again into life among a new people and among scenes of great advancement and of wonderful progress. His hopes had been realized, and he lived again; yes, he who had lain a hundred years in a comatose state, now breathed, walked, and had his being once more. His theory had been most remarkably proved—proved by the man who had first advanced it, and the world should demand no further proof. What would be his reputation in Washington? Would there be any difficulty in proving that he was what he claimed to be—a man who had lived in 1887? No! it could not be; for there were the proofs in the safe, and such proofs as no man could dispute—letters written years ago by men long since dead—aye, dead before a man of his apparent age could have been born. No! He quickly dispelled the idea that it would be difficult for him to prove everything. Recovering from his sombre chain of thought, he turned his attention to the street beneath his window.

He gazed again and again up and down the street and across the way. Was this the Montgomery street he had so often walked upon? It differed so from its former appearance that he felt that he was dreaming. Great, massive buildings, in all the most artistic styles, met his eyes on every side. Beautiful stores, with huge plate-glass windows, extended as far as the eye could reach. The sidewalks, as well as he could tell, were clean and in perfect condition; and where he had in former times noticed the peanut-vender, the fruit-seller, the blind and the lame with their excruciating music-boxes, and the scores of others obstructing the sidewalks, was now clear, clean, and wholly for the use of the pedestrian. He noticed that that which people had to sell was kept within their stores, and not on the sidewalk; that there were no signs hanging over the heads of the passers-by to fall and, perhaps, break their bones; nor were there any posts of all and every description along the streets. There were no telegraph or telephone wires in view, nor were visible many other things which had formerly been eye-sores to people of taste.

The streets were paved with some new kind of material; what it was, he could not tell from where he stood, but it was such as gave very little sound from the passing vehicles. It was smooth and clean, and free from the many holes which had formerly rendered traveling so uncertain, even dangerous.

A hundred years had made very little change in the heterogeneous assortment of vehicles one sees in a great city. There were many fine and elegant equipages, with and without horses, the latter driven, as Cobb presumed, by electric motors. Yet of this class there were not very many, as San Francisco is a city of hills, and not well adapted for anything but horse or attachment propulsion.

The attire of the pedestrians was that which struck him as the most peculiar. All the women wore short dresses, none reaching lower than within eight inches of the ground. Their feet were covered with low-cut shoes, in some instances; in others, with small, neat patent-leather top-boots, the top of the boot just hidden under the dress. He noticed very few silks worn, most of the dresses being of heavy goods.

No bustles were worn, and the dresses were close-fitting with jacket basques in most cases. Hats were the prevailing style.

It seemed to Cobb, as he looked at his own new clothing and that of the gentler sex, that the very acme of simplicity and good, sound common sense was seen in this new order of raiment.

Cobb knew that there were many things for him to learn, now that he was so new to the world, and that there would be so many peculiar and remarkable inventions that he ought not to evince much surprise when he should behold them for the first time. There was much that demanded immediate attention and study, if he wished to be upon an equal footing with the rest of mankind.

At this moment Lyman entered the room, followed by Rawolle.

“We have been a little longer than we anticipated,” exclaimed the latter, throwing off his coat; “but there was really no need of hurrying too much. We have plenty of time to reach Washington by to-morrow morning.”

“To-morrow morning!” cried Cobb, in surprise.

“Certainly, to-morrow morning. I think we will be there at 6 dial,” nonchalantly knocking the ashes from the end of a cigar which he was smoking.

“Mr. Rawolle, I am prepared for many new and, to me, quite startling statements, but this of yours is a little too strong, is it not? We are over three thousand miles from Washington, and I very much doubt your ability to overcome that distance by to-morrow morning, though you may have made great strides toward its achievement.”

“My dear Cobb, it is just as I tell you; at least, as near as I can remember. Let me look at the schedule and I will give it to you, exactly.”

Rawolle took the time-card out of his pocket, and, quickly running over it, said:

“No; I am a little out of the way. If we leave here at 16 dial to-day, we will be in Washington at 8 dial to-morrow.”

“Enough!” pettishly exclaimed Cobb. “I will not question you any more. Go ahead and do it, that is all, and then I will be satisfied.”

It piqued him to think that they were making sport of his ignorance; he lighted a cigar and walked to the other side of the room.

“Now, Cobb,” continued Rawolle, “we have our tickets here, and will leave for Washington on the 16-dial train. I have had a trunk fully furnished with all the necessary articles that you will need for the first few days in Washington, so you will not have to immediately look after such things upon your arrival. It is now 13 dial, and we have three hours until train-time.”

“But tell me, Rawolle, why do you speak of 16 dial and 13 dial? Of course, I know you refer to the time; but what has been the change in the calendar that you should employ such terms?”

Both Rawolle and Lyman smiled.

“True! you cannot know of the changes which have occurred.”

Rawolle drew his chair closer to Cobb, and continued:

“The calendar has been somewhat revised since you were on earth before, or rather, since you so unceremoniously skipped from the society of your friends; and I suppose you have not kept note of the changes in time?” looking at him in a quizzical manner. Cobb laughingly acknowledged the sally, and requested him to continue.

“It was as long ago as 1920,” proceeded Rawolle, “that the new order of time went into effect. In that year, a commission of scientific gentlemen was convened by direction of the national legislature for the purpose of considering the feasibility of making such a change in our calendar as would simplify it and make it more uniform. The result was that the calendar, as we use it to-day, is quite different from that which was in vogue during your time. We now divide the whole day into twenty-four hours, as formerly, but number them from one to twenty-four. Our time-pieces have two hands, but they are not used as were those of old time; one hand marks the minutes, and the other marks the seconds. The hours are marked by numbers showing themselves through a circular slot in the dial, changing every hour. One hour after midnight the dial shows the figure 1; and so on up to 24, which is the close of the day. Thus: 12 o’clock, old style, is 12 dial, new style; and 5 o’clock, old style, is 17 dial, new style. We do not use the word ‘o’clock’ any more, but employ the word ‘dial,’ instead. The word ‘dial,’ however, is usually omitted, the customary expression for time being simply the numerals of the hours and fractions thereof. The commission could not ignore the fact that the excess of 57.2 minutes per day over the 86,400 used in the computation must still be carried forward as an excess to be afterward accounted for; for 86,400 was the nearest number to the whole which was a common multiple for three numbers, representing seconds, minutes, and hours. The excess, being 5 hours 48 minutes and 47.8 seconds per year, is still carried forward to the fourth year, where it is taken up as an extra day, and is called ‘Old-Year-Day.’ The year, as now divided, consists of 13 months of 28 days each, and one day over. The year has 365 days, as of old, but the first day is not counted as a day of any month; it is called ‘New-Year’s-Day,’ the next day being January first. There are 28 days in each month, with a new month, Finis, added. New-Year’s-Day is neither Monday nor Tuesday, nor any other day of the week, but simply New-Year’s-Day; and January first is always Monday. The advantages of this system are, that every month commences on Monday and ends on Sunday, having just four weeks. In leap-year the additional day is called ‘Old-Year-Day,’ and is just before New-Year’s-Day; these days are legal holidays. This, with some other minor alterations, is the way the calendar stands in every civilized nation to-day.”

“But is it not a little confusing to you, this change from the old to the new style?”

“You forget that I never used any other,” laughingly returned Rawolle.

“True; I had forgotten that fact. But does not this extra day interfere in many ways with the dates of bills, notes, and other legal documents?”

“Not at all. The extra day is simply New-Year’s-Day—a day of time to fill in the year, but not for any other purpose. In regard to the dating of official papers, they are dated the next day, and this day is as if it never existed. Do you comprehend?”

“Yes, I comprehend your statements, but not having had any experience in the use of this new order of dates, I cannot say that I am fully aware of how it works.”

“You will find no difficulty in its application, I assure you.”

Without speaking further on the subject, all busied themselves in their preparations for the journey eastward.