Uncle Sid's
ponderous knock on her door and his raucous voice calling to her.

"Come, Helen. Let's you and me take a walk before the sun has burned the
dust all off o' the grass."

"All right, Uncle Sid! I'll be there in a moment."

She was up and dressed almost before the echo of Uncle Sid's voice had
died away.

Uncle Sid eyed her approvingly as she stepped into the hall.

"Pretty trim lookin' craft," he remarked. "Don't take you long to get
under way, either."

"Where are you going, Uncle Sid?"

"Anywhere, so I get out o' the smell o' varnish! Sand's better'n that."
Uncle Sid wrinkled his nose in deep disgust. "You can blow sand off; but
this stuff! It just soaks into you till you can taste it."

Helen laughed.

"It is penetrating."

"Penetratin'!" Uncle Sid snorted. "I should say it was. If starvin'
cannibals just got one whiff of us they'd never think o' cookin' us
unless they'd got used to lunchin' off pitch pine."

They passed through the office, startling a dozing clerk and porter to
forced attention; but these, discovering that their services were not
needed, settled themselves to their former positions.

The outside air was heavy with the indescribable odor of newness and of
hustling activity in drowsy repose.

Uncle Sid had a bag in his hand which bumped softly against the outer
door as he opened it.

"Oranges," he explained. "Hope to Gracious they ain't infected. I gave
'em a good chance. I kept 'em in my room last night."

Outside the door, he gained his first knowledge of a California fog. The
sticky, clammy chill penetrated their garments like water. Uncle Sid
buttoned his sailor jacket as he descended the broad steps.

"This settles it!"

"Settles what?" Helen inquired, her teeth chattering.

"This 'ere fog has given me an idea. I'm goin' down to the river, the
Christopher Sawyer, or some such heathen name. I just bet it's one of
those uncanny sort o' streams that fit this country like a wet sail to a
spar."

"You'll have to explain, Uncle Sid; I'm stupid this morning."

Uncle Sid looked sceptical, but resumed his point.

"Just look at this fog! I bet that the Christopher Sawyer gets out o'
bed nights and distributes itself through the air general, an' waits for
the sun to herd it back. I'm goin' down to see."

Helen followed the old gentleman, absently humoring him in his fancy.
She was in a listening mood rather than a talkative one, and Uncle Sid
distracted her thoughts f