He next went on to tell me that he had laid a bet with another man that he would “hit” 1903, on the 15th of June, and that the other man had laid a bet that he would get nearer. They were to meet at the Savoy Hotel at noon on the 30th, and to compare notes; and whichever had won was to pay the other a set of Records, for it seems they were both Antiquarians. All this was Greek to me (as I daresay it is to you) until he pulled out of his pocket a thing like a watch, and noted that the dial was set at 1909. Whereupon he began tapping it and cursing in the name of a number of Saints familiar to us all. It seems that to go backwards in time, according to him, was an art easily achieved towards the middle of the Twenty-second Century, and it was worked by the simplest of instruments. I asked him if he had read “The Time Machine.” He said impatiently, “You have,” and went on to explain the little dial. “They cost a deal of money, but then,” he added, with beautiful simplicity, “I have told you that I am Baron Hogg.” Rich people played at it apparently as ours do at ballooning, and with the same uncertainty. I asked him whether he could get forward into the future. He simply said: “What _do_ you mean?” “Why,” said I, “according to St. Thomas, time is a dimension, just like space.” When I said the words “St. Thomas” he made a curious sign, like a man saluting. “Yes,” he said, gravely and reverently, “but you know well the future is forbidden to men.” He then made a digression to ask if St. Thomas was read in 1909. I told him to what extent, and by whom. He got intensely interested. He looked right up into my face, and began making gestures with his hands. “Now that really _is_ interesting,” he said. I asked him “Why?” “Well, you see,” he said in an off-hand way, “there’s the usual historic quarrel. On the face of it one would say he wasn’t read at all, looking up the old Records, and so on. Then some Specialist gets hold of all the mentions of him in the early Twentieth Century, and writes a book to show that even the politicians had heard of him. Then there is a discussion, and nothing comes of it. _That’s_ where the fun of Travelling Back comes in. You find out.” I asked him if he had ever gone to the other centuries. He said, “No, but Pop did.” I learned later that “Pop” was his father. “You see,” he added respectfully, “Pop’s only just dead, and, of course, I couldn’t afford it on my allowance. Pop,” he went on, rather proudly, “got himself back into the Thirteenth Century during a walk in Kent with a friend, and found himself in the middle of a horrible great river. He was saved just before the time was up.” “How do you mean ‘the time was up’?” said I.