It was just before the Rains. We were sitting in the verandah in the dead, hot, close air, gasping and praying that the black-blue clouds would let down and bring the cool. Very, very far away, there was a faint whisper, which was the roar of the Rains breaking over the river. One of the men heard it, got out of his chair, listened, and said, naturally enough:--“Thank God!” Then the Blastoderm turned in his place and said:--“Why? I assure you it's only the result of perfectly natural causes--atmospheric phenomena of the simplest kind. Why you should, therefore, return thanks to a Being who never did exist--who is only a figment--” “Blastoderm,” grunted the man in the next chair, “dry up, and throw me over the Pioneer. We know all about your figments.” The Blastoderm reached out to the table, took up one paper, and jumped as if something had stung him. Then he handed the paper over. “As I was saying,” he went on slowly and with an effort--“due to perfectly natural causes--perfectly natural causes. I mean--” “Hi! Blastoderm, you've given me the Calcutta Mercantile Advertiser.” The dust got up in little whorls, while the treetops rocked and the kites whistled. But no one was looking at the coming of the Rains. We were all staring at the Blastoderm, who had risen from his chair and was fighting with his speech. Then he said, still more slowly:-- “Perfectly conceivable--dictionary--red oak--amenable--cause--retaining--shuttlecock--alone.” “Blastoderm's drunk,” said one man. But the Blastoderm was not drunk. He looked at us in a dazed sort of way, and began motioning with his hands in the half light as the clouds closed overhead. Then--with a scream:-- “What is it?--Can't--reserve--attainable--market--obscure--” But his speech seemed to freeze in him, and--just as the lightning shot two tongues that cut the whole sky into three pieces and the rain fell in quivering sheets--the Blastoderm was struck dumb. He stood pawing and champing like a hard-held horse, and his eyes were full of terror. The Doctor came over in three minutes, and heard the story. “It's aphasia,” he said. “Take him to his room. I KNEW the smash would come.” We carried the Blastoderm across, in the pouring rain, to his quarters, and the Doctor gave him bromide of potassium to make him sleep. Then the Doctor came back to us and told us that aphasia was like all the arrears of “Punjab Head” falling in a lump; and that only once before--in the case of a sepoy--had he met with so complete a case. I myself have seen mild aphasia in an overworked man, but this sudden dumbness was uncanny--though, as the Blastoderm himself might have said, due to “perfectly natural causes.” “He'll have to take leave after this,” said the Doctor. “He won't be fit for work for another three months. No; it isn't insanity or anything like it. It's only complete loss of control over the speech and memory. I fancy it will keep the Blastoderm quiet, though.”