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Author ofMist of morning,” “Up the hill and over,” “The shining
ship,” Etc.    Professor Spence sat upon an upturned keg—­and
shivered.  No one had told him that there might be fog and he
had not happened to think of it for himself.  Still, fog in a
coast city at that time of the year was not an unreasonable
happening and the professor was a reasonable man.  It wasn’t the
fog he blamed so much as the swiftness of its arrival.  Fifteen
minutes ago the world had been an ordinary world.  He had walked
about in it freely, if somewhat irritably, following certain
vague directions of the hotel clerk as to the finding of
Johnston’s wharf.  He had found Johnston’s wharf; extracted it
neatly from a very wilderness of wharves, a feat upon which Mr.
Johnston, making boats in a shed at the end of it, had
complimented him highly.  “There’s terrible few as finds me just
off,” said Mr. Johnston.  “Hours it takes ’em sometimes,
sometimes days.”  It was clear that