The prudent commuter (and all commuters are prudent, for the others are soon weeded out by the rigours of that way of life) keeps the furnace going until early May in these latitudes—­assuming that there are small children in the house.  None of those April hot waves can fool him; he knows that, with cunning management, two or three shovelfuls of coal a day will nurse the fire along, and there it is in case of a sudden chilly squall.  But when at last he lets the fire die, and after its six months of constant and honourable service the old boiler grows cold, the kindly glow fades and sinks downward out of sight under a crust of gray clinkers, our friend muses tenderly in his cellar, sitting on a packing case.

He thinks, first, how odd it is that when he said to himself, “We might as well let the fire go out,” it kept on sturdily burning, without attention or fuel, for a day and a half; whereas if he had, earlier in the season, neglected it even for a few hours, all would have been cold and silent.  He remembers, for instance, the tragic evening with the mercury around zero, when, having (after supper) arranged everything at full blast and all radiators comfortably sizzling, he lay down on his couch to read Leonard Merrick, intending to give all hands a warm house for the night.  Very well; but when he woke up around 2 A.M. and heard the tenor winds singing through the woodland, how anxiously he stumbled down the cellar stairs, fearing the worst.  His fears were justified.  There, on top of the thick bed of silvery ashes, lay the last pallid rose of fire.  For as every pyrophil has noted, when the draught is left on, the fire flees upward, leaving its final glow at the top; but when all draughts are shut off, it sinkst downward, shyly hiding in the heart of the mass.

So he stood, still drowsily aghast, while Gissing (the synthetic dog) frolicked merrily about his unresponsive shins, deeming this just one more of those surprising entertainments arranged for his delight.

Now, on such an occasion the experienced commuter makes the best of a bad job, knowing there is little to be gained by trying to cherish and succour a feeble remnant of fire.  He will manfully jettison the whole business, filling the cellar with the crash of shunting ashes and the clatter of splitting kindling.  But this pitiable creature still thought that mayhap he could, by sedulous care and coaxing, revive the dying spark.  With such black arts as were available he wrestled with the despondent glim.  During this period of guilty and furtive strife he went quietly upstairs, and a voice spoke up from slumber.  “Isn’t the house very cold?” it said.

“Is it?” said this wretched creature, with great simulation of surprise.  “Seems very comfortable to me.”

“Well, I think you’d better send up some more heat,” said this voice, in the tone of one accustomed to command.

“Right away,” said the panic-stricken combustion engineer, and returned to his cellar, wondering whether he was suspected.  How is it, he wondered, that ladies know instinctively, even when vested in several layers of blankets, if anything is wrong with the furnace?  Another of the mysteries, said he, grimly, to the synthetic dog.  By this time he knew full well (it was 3 A.M.) that there was naught for it but to decant the grateful of cinders and set to work on a new fire.