Now, as has been hinted, I was dressed for southern California; and the fog was very damp and chill.  The light overcoat I wore failed utterly to exclude it.  At first I had been comfortable enough, but as mile succeeded mile the cold of that winter land fog penetrated to the bone.  In answer to my comment Manning replied cheerfully in the words of an old saw: 

    “A winter’s fog
    Will freeze a dog,”

said he.

I agreed with him.  We continued to jog on.  Manning detailed what I then thought were hunting lies as to the abundance of game; but which I afterward discovered were only sober truths.  When too far gone in the miseries of abject cold I remembered his former calling, and glancing sideways at his bronzed, soldierly face, wished I had gumption enough left to start him going on some of his Indian campaigns.  It was too late; I had not the gumption; I was too cold.

Now I believe I am fairly well qualified to know when I really feel cold.  I have slept out with the thermometer out of sight somewhere down near the bulb; I once snowshoed nine miles; and then overheated from that exertion, drove thirty-five without additional clothing.  On various other occasions I have had experiences that might be called frigid.  But never have I been quite so deadly cold as on that winter morning’s drive through the land fog of semi-tropical California.  It struck through to the very heart.

I subsequently discovered that it takes two hours and three quarters to drive to the ranch.  That is a long time when one has nothing to look at, and when one is cold.  In fact, it is so long that one loses track of time at all, and gradually relapses into that queer condition of passive endurance whereto is no end and no beginning.  Therefore the end always comes suddenly, and as a surprise.

So it was in this case.  Out of the mists sprang suddenly two tall fan palms, and then two others, and still others.  I realized dimly that we were in an avenue of palms.  The wheels grated strangely on gravel.  We swung sharply to the left between hedges.  The mass of a building loomed indistinctly.  Manning applied the brakes.  We stopped, the steam from the horses’ shining backs rising straight up to mingle with the fog.

“Well, here we are!” said Manning.

So we were!  I hadn’t thought of that.  We must be here.  After an appreciable moment it occurred to me that perhaps I’d better climb down.  I did so, very slowly and stiffly, making the sad mistake of jumping down from the height of the step.  How that did injure my feelings!  The only catastrophe I can remember comparable to it was when a teacher rapped my knuckles with a ruler after I had been making snowballs bare handed.  My benumbed faculties next swung around to the proposition of proceeding up an interminable gravel walk—­(it is twenty-five feet long!) to a forbidding flight of stairs—­(porch steps—­five of them!) I put this idea into execution.  I reached the steps.  And then——­