his harness, perhaps to dislodge a fly far ahead of its season.
Light had just filmed the windows; and with that the first
sparrow woke, chirped instantly, and roused neighbours in the
trees of the small yard, including a loud-voiced robin.
Vociferations began irregularly, but were soon unanimous.

"Sleep? Dang likely now, ain't it!"

Night sounds were becoming day sounds; the far-away hooting of
freight-engines seemed brisker than an hour ago in the dark. A
cheerful whistler passed the house, even more careless of
sleepers than the milkman's horse had been; then a group of
coloured workmen came by, and although it was impossible to be
sure whether they were homeward bound from night-work or on their
way to day-work, at least it was certain that they were jocose.
Loose, aboriginal laughter preceded them afar, and beat on the
air long after they had gone by.

The sick-room night-light, shielded from his eyes by a newspaper
propped against a water-pitcher, still showed a thin glimmering
that had grown offensive to Adams. In his wandering and
enfeebled thoughts, which were much more often imaginings than
reasonings, the attempt of the night-light to resist the dawn
reminded him of something unpleasant, though he could not
discover just what the unpleasant thing was. Here was a puzzle
that irritated him the more because he could not solve it, yet
always seemed just on the point of a solution. However, he may
have lost nothing cheerful by remaining in the dark upon the
matter; for if he had been a little sharper in this introspection
he might have concluded that the squalor of the night-light, in