of the War.

As it is, owing to the mistaken good-nature of the rival generals, the
date of the fixture was changed, and practically all that a historian
can do is to record the result.

A slight mist had risen as early as four o'clock on Saturday. By
night-fall the atmosphere was a little dense, but the lamp-posts were
still clearly visible at a distance of some feet, and nobody,
accustomed to living in London, would have noticed anything much out of
the common. It was not till Sunday morning that the fog proper really
began.

London awoke on Sunday to find the world blanketed in the densest,
yellowest London particular that had been experienced for years. It was
the sort of day when the City clerk has the exhilarating certainty that
at last he has an excuse for lateness which cannot possibly be received
with harsh disbelief. People spent the day indoors and hoped it would
clear up by tomorrow.

"They can't possibly fight if it's like this," they told each other.

But on the Monday morning the fog was, if possible, denser. It wrapped
London about as with a garment. People shook their heads.

"They'll have to put it off," they were saying, when of a
sudden--_Boom!_ And, again, _Boom!_

It was the sound of heavy guns.