“But it's two years and more till November 11, 1890,” said a voice at his side. Tommy merely cast an indifferent look upon the speaker and walked off without a word. The whole village now thought that Tommy had become a monomaniac upon the subject of his tombstone. Perhaps he had. No one has been able to learn from his friend, Billy Skidmore, what thoughts he may have communicated to the latter upon the matter. Tommy now lived for no other apparent purpose than to visit his tombstone daily. He no longer confined his walks thither to the pleasant days. He went in weather most perilous to so old and frail a man. One of his prospective heirs took sufficient interest in him to advise more care of his health. “I can easily keep alive till the time comes,” returned the antique; “there's only a year left.” Rapidly his hold upon life relaxed. A week before November 11, 1890, he went to bed and stayed there. People began to speculate as to whether his unique prediction--or I should say, his decree--would be fulfilled to the very day. Upon the fifth day of his illness Death threatened to come before the time that had been set for receiving him. “Isn't this the tenth?” the old man mumbled. “No,” said his housekeeper, who with one of his nieces, the doctor, and Billy Skidmore, attended the ill man, “it's only the 9th.” “Then I must fight for two days more; the tombstone must not lie.” And he rallied so well that it seemed as if the tombstone would lie, nevertheless, for Tommy was still alive at eleven-thirty on the night of November 11. Moreover he had been in his senses when last awake, and there was every likelihood that he would look at the clock whenever his eyes should next open. “He can't live till morning, that's sure,” said the doctor. “But, good Lord! you don't mean to say that he'll hold out till after twelve o'clock,” said Billy Skidmore, whose anxiety only had sustained him in his grief at the approaching dissolution of his friend. “Quite probably,” replied the doctor. “Good heavens! Tommy won't rest easy in his grave if he don't die on the 11th. The monument will be wrong.” “Oh, that won't matter,” said the niece. Billy looked at her in amazement. Was his old friend's sacred wish to miscarry thus? “Yes, 'twill matter,” he said, in a loud whisper. “And if time won't wait for Tommy of its own accord, we'll make it. When did he last see the clock?” “Half-past nine,” said the housekeeper. “Then we'll turn it back to ten,” said Skidmore, acting as he spoke. “But he may hear the town clock strike.” Billy said never a word, but plunged into his overcoat, threw on his hat, and hurried on into the cold night. “Ten minutes to midnight,” he said, as he looked up at the town clock upon the church steeple. “Can I skin up them ladders in time?” Tommy awoke once before the last slumber. Billy was by his bedside, as were the doctor, the housekeeper, and the niece. The old man's eyes sought the clock.