Mrs. Drabdump, of 11 Glover Street, Bow, was one of the few persons in London whom fog did not depress.  She went about her work quite as cheerlessly as usual.  She had been among the earliest to be aware of the enemy’s advent, picking out the strands of fog from the coils of darkness the moment she rolled up her bedroom blind and unveiled the sombre picture of the winter morning.  She knew that the fog had come to stay for the day at least, and that the gas-bill for the quarter was going to beat the record in high-jumping.  She also knew that this was because she had allowed her new gentleman lodger, Mr. Arthur Constant, to pay a fixed sum of a shilling a week for gas, instead of charging him a proportion of the actual account for the whole house.  The meteorologists might have saved the credit of their science if they had reckoned with Mrs. Drabdump’s next gas-bill when they predicted the weather and made “Snow” the favourite, and said that “Fog” would be nowhere.  Fog was everywhere, yet Mrs. Drabdump took no credit to herself for her prescience.  Mrs. Drabdump indeed took no credit for anything, paying her way along doggedly, and struggling through life like a wearied swimmer trying to touch the horizon.  That things always went as badly as she had foreseen did not exhilarate her in the least.

Mrs. Drabdump was a widow.  Widows are not born but made, else you might have fancied Mrs. Drabdump had always been a widow.  Nature had given her that tall, spare form, and that pale, thin-lipped, elongated, hard-eyed visage, and that painfully precise hair, which are always associated with widowhood in low life.  It is only in higher circles that women can lose their husbands and yet remain bewitching.  The late Mr. Drabdump had scratched the base of his thumb with a rusty nail, and Mrs. Drabdump’s foreboding that he would die of lockjaw had not prevented her wrestling day and night with the shadow of Death, as she had wrestled with it vainly twice before, when Katie died of diphtheria and little Johnny of scarlet fever.  Perhaps it is from overwork among the poor that Death has been reduced to a shadow.

Mrs. Drabdump was lighting the kitchen fire.  She did it very scientifically, as knowing the contrariety of coal and the anxiety of flaming sticks to end in smoke unless rigidly kept up to the mark.  Science was a success as usual; and Mrs. Drabdump rose from her knees content, like a Parsee priestess who had duly paid her morning devotions to her deity.  Then she started violently, and nearly lost her balance.  Her eye had caught the hands of the clock on the mantel.  They pointed to fifteen minutes to seven.  Mrs. Drabdump’s devotion to the kitchen fire invariably terminated at fifteen minutes past six.  What was the matter with the clock?

Mrs. Drabdump had an immediate vision of Snoppet, the neighbouring horologist, keeping the clock in hand for weeks and then returning it only superficially repaired and secretly injured more vitally “for the good of the trade.”  The evil vision vanished as quickly as it came, exorcised by the deep boom of St. Dunstan’s bells chiming the three-quarters.  In its place a great horror surged.  Instinct had failed; Mrs. Drabdump had risen at half-past six instead of six.  Now she understood why she had been feeling so dazed and strange and sleepy.  She had overslept herself.