"Unless I am descended from HENGIST or HORSA," I replied, "there isn't
an atom of culture in me."
"Then I can confide in you. A disturbance is advancing in this direction
from Eastern Europe."
"You mean that the CROWN PRINCE is retreating towards us from Poland?"
"No," he snapped. "And another disturbance is coming from the vicinity
of Iceland."
"Good heavens! This is too much. At my time of life how am I to learn
how to pronounce Pzreykjavik."
"Let me tell you what I prophesy for the next few days. Saturday will be
bright."
"Splendid! A cheerful week-end will do us all good."
"Sunday will be gloomy, and on Monday will come the downfall."
"WILLIAM'S or ours?"
"Accompanied by strong south-westerly winds, rising to a gale, and a
rapid fall of the barometer. So now you know. My mind is easy. I have
told someone. I have been cruelly censored--only allowed to predict just
wet or fine from day to day. I felt that I must tell someone. The Censor
and Count ZEPPELIN between them were killing me."
I pitied the agony of the professional weather forecaster. I promised to
respect his confidence. I left the carriage proud of the fact that I was
one of the two men in England who knew what Saturday's weather would be.
That is why I left my umbrella at home while apparently every other man
took his out. It is also the reason why my new topper was ruined. And
now I wonder whether the prophet was mistaken, or whether at the last
moment he detected signs of culture in me and lied.
* * * * *