He waited expectantly next day, but nothing happened, and after a week
of bed he began to realize that the job might be a long one. The
monotony, to a man of his active habits, became almost intolerable, and
the narrated adventures of Mr. James Flynn, his only caller, filled him
with an uncontrollable longing to be up and doing.

The fine weather went, and Mr. Scutts, in his tumbled bed, lay watching
the rain beating softly on the window-panes. Then one morning he awoke
to the darkness of a London fog.

"It gets worse and worse," said Mrs. Scutts, as she returned home in the
afternoon with a relish for his tea. "Can't see your 'and before your
face."

Mr. Scutts looked thoughtful. He ate his tea in silence, and after he
had finished lit his pipe and sat up in bed smoking.

"Penny for your thoughts," said his wife.

"I'm going out," said Mr. Scutts, in a voice that defied opposition.
"I'm going to 'ave a walk, and when I'm far enough away I'm going to
'ave one or two drinks. I believe this fog is sent a-purpose to save my
life."

Mrs. Scutts remonstrated, but in vain, and at half-past six the invalid,
with his cap over his eyes and a large scarf tied round the lower part
of his face, listened for a moment at his front door and then
disappeared in the fog.

Left to herself, Mrs. Scutts returned to the bedroom and, poking the