“I don’t care a row of pins about international civilization. We’re something like twenty minutes wrong already here. When you’ve made your silly change to summer time, and wiped out that twenty-five minutes Irish time, we shall be an hour and three quarters wrong.” “At all events,” said Mr. Courtney, “you’ll have to do it.” “I won’t.” “And when you’ve got accustomed to it, you’ll see the advantages of the change.” Sir Timothy was profoundly irritated. “You may do as you like,” he said, “I mean to stick to the proper time. The proper time, mind you, strictly according to the sun, as it rises in this neighbourhood. I haven’t worked it out exactly yet, but I should say, roughly, that there’ll be two hours’ difference between your watch and mine.” Mr. Courtney gasped. “Do you mean to say that you’re actually going to add on two hours? “I’m going to take off two hours,” said Sir Timothy. Mr. Courtney thought for a moment. “You’ll be adding on those two hours,” he said, “not taking them off----” “You’re an extraordinarily muddle-headed man, Courtney. Can’t you see that if I call it six when you say it’s eight I’m taking off----” “You’re not. The way to look at it is this: A day is twenty-four hours long. You say it’s twenty-six hours. Therefore, you add on.” “I don’t do anything of the sort,” said Sir Timothy. “Look here, the sun rises, say, at 6 a.m. You and a lot of other silly people choose to say that it rises at 8. What I’m doing--I and the sun, Courtney--mind that. The sun’s with me---- What we’re doing is taking off two hours.” The argument went on for some time. Its result was that Sir Timothy and Mr. Courtney did not speak to each other again for a fortnight. Arguments, religious, political and economic, often end in this way. During that fortnight summer time established itself, more or less, in the neighbourhood. Mr. Courtney, the local bank, the railway company, and the police observed the new time in its full intensity. The parish priest and most of the farmers took a moderate line. They sacrificed the twenty-five minutes of the original Irish time, but resisted the imposition of a whole extra hour. With them it was eight o’clock when the nine o’clock train started for Dublin. A few extremists stood out for their full rights as Irishmen, and insisted that the bank, which said it opened at 10 a.m., was really beginning business at 8.35 a.m. Sir Timothy, dragging his household with him, set up what he called actual time, and breakfasted a full two hours after the progressive party. The practical inconvenience of these differences of opinion became obvious when Sir Timothy arrived at the Petty Sessions Court to take his seat on the Bench just as Mr. Courtney, having completed the business of the day, was going home for a rather late luncheon. “No cases to-day?” said Sir Timothy, coldly polite. “Oh, yes, there were, several. I’ve finished them off.” “But,” said Sir Timothy, “it’s only just the hour for beginning.”