There passed
through his mind a wonder as to
who would spend it. The most
decent thing, perhaps, would be to
give it away. If it was in his room
--to-morrow--the parish would not
bury him, and it would be safer that
the parish should.
He was thinking of this as he
left the shop and began to cross the
street. Because his mind was wandering
he was less watchful. Suddenly
a rubber-tired hansom, moving
without sound, appeared immediately
in his path--the horse's head
loomed up above his own. He made
the inevitable involuntary whirl aside
to move out of the way, the hansom
passed, and turning again, he went
on. His movement had been too
swift to allow of his realizing the
direction in which his turn had been
made. He was wholly unaware that
when he crossed the street he crossed
backward instead of forward. He
turned a corner literally feeling his
way, went on, turned another, and
after walking the length of the street,
suddenly understood that he was in
a strange place and had lost his
bearings.
This was exactly what had happened
to people on the day of the
memorable fog of three years before.
He had heard them talking of such
experiences, and of the curious and
baffling sensations they gave rise to
in the brain. Now he understood
them. He could not be far from
his lodgings, but he felt like a man
who was blind, and who had been
turned out of the path he knew.
He had not the resource of the people
whose stories he had heard.
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