tell her dam lies."

"That won't hurt you, Old Jack."

"I'm not complainin'."

"Besides, I shall have to tell 'em, too, as likely as not. You must
tell me what you've told, so as to agree. I should go round to ask
after Lund, only I promised to meet an old thirty-fifth man here at
five. It's gone half-past. He's lost in the fog. But I can't go away
till he comes." Old Jack is seized with an unreasoning sanguineness.

"The fog's clearin'," he says. "You'll see, it'll be quite bright in
half-an-hour. Nothin' near so bad as it was, now. Just you look at
that window."

The window in question, when looked at, was not encouraging. So far as
could be seen at all through the turgid atmosphere of the room, it was
a parallelogram of solid opacity crossed by a window-frame, with a
hopeless tinge of Roman ochre. But Old Jack was working up to a fiction
to serve a purpose. By the time he had succeeded in believing the fog
was lifting he would be absolved from his promise not to go out in it.
It was a trial of strength between credulity and the actual. The
General looked at the window and asked a bystander what he thought,
sir? Who felt bound to testify that he thought the prospect hopeless.

"You're allowin' nothin' for the time of day," said Major Roper, and
his motive was transparent. Sure enough, after the General's friend
had come for him, an hour late, the Major took advantage of the doubt
whether absolute darkness was caused by fog or mere night, and in spite
of all remonstrances, began pulling on his overcoat to go out. He
even had the effrontery to appeal to the hall-porter to confirm his
views about the state of things out of doors. Mr. Mulberry added his
dissuasions with all the impressiveness of his official uniform and the
cubic area of its contents. But even his powerful influence carried no
weight in this case. It was useless to argue with the infatuated old
boy, who was evidently very uneasy about Major Lund, and suspected also
that Miss Nightingale had not reported fair, in order to prevent him
coming. He made himself into a perfect bolster with wraps, and put on
a respirator. This damned thing, however, he took off again, as it
impeded respiration, and then went out into the all but solid fog,
gasping and choking frightfully, to feel his way to Hill Street and
satisfy himself the best thing was being done to his old friend's
bronchitis.

"They'll kill him with their dam nostrums," said he to the last member