BEGGARS ON HORSEBACK. 117 



conciled to the blankets, and we held our breaths 

 with the dread that there might be a sunrise, 

 and that we should have to go out into the 

 piercing air to look at it. There was a batter- 

 ing upon the Brixtonian door, and then a voice : 

 " It's a quarter past three, sir, and it's a very 

 thick morning," and then our heroic fellow- 

 traveller : " Never mind, I'm comin' out." 



We lay, silent as stones, listening intently. 

 The footstep paused at our door, but relenting, 

 passed on without knocking. Presently we heard 

 the newspaper-man go forth like the dove from 

 the ark, and, after a similarly brief absence, return, 

 and settle himself down in the saloon, where, faith- 

 ful to the interests of the ' Brixton Chanticleer,' he 

 no doubt occupied himself in recording his im- 

 pressions of the mist. For the sake of our self- 

 respect we rose and looked out of the window — 

 a shuddering glance which scarcely revealed to 

 us the foggy outlines of the other shanty and 

 the cairn of stones. 



Beyond these, a thick curtain of mist without a 



