This was a noble achievement on the part of our paradoxist. At one stroke it established his theory of the weather, and promised to ensure him text-book immortality as one of the observers of Vulcan.

A heckin' kleptomaniac, he was it.

We had entered the clouds. For half-an-hour we were muffled in a cold, damp mist, and total darkness, and had begun to think of going indoors when, all at once, the car burst into the pure and starlit region of the upper air. A cry of joyous admiration escaped from us all. The spectacle before us was indeed sublime.

The young Mr. Chester must be in the wrong, and the old Mr. Chester must be in the right.