When the bus stopped in front of the bench, she saw that one of its headlights was quite dead. And the other did not look very bright. As she stepped up into the bus and dropped her coin, she intended telling the driver about the single headlight. But she didn't. The driver thrust a ticket at her without turning his head and for some reason which she didn't at the moment grasp, her impulse to speak vanished. She walked back to the middle of the bus and sat down. The bus rolled forward again. Glancing out, she could see nothing but fog. It pressed against the windows like a white wall; it even seemed to be seeping into the bus. The seat felt as cold as the bench back at the curb stop. For some reason she kept looking at the driver. Perhaps because there wasn't much else to look at. About all she could see of him was his back. He sat slumped in the seat, hunched over the wheel, looking to neither left nor right, his total attention focussed on the fog-blurred ribbon of road immediately ahead. Martha wished there were some other passengers on the bus. The driver was no company at all and the smothering fog outside made everything seem so desolate. The interior of the bus itself looked dingy and soiled, as if it hadn't been swept out or polished for months on end. Frowning toward the window, Martha realized that she would never be able to tell when they were approaching her destination, Barley Street. The fog had become an impenetrable blanket, swirling close on all sides. "Driver," Martha called out, "will you please stop at Barley Street?" He didn't answer, didn't turn, didn't so much as nod his head. He stared forward into the fog and Martha imagined that he hadn't even heard her. But of course he must have. It was simply that the fog made driving hazardous and his entire attention was concentrated on the street ahead. Trying to stifle her irritation, Martha leaned her head back against the seat and attempted to relax. But the top of the seat was hard and cold and she soon sat up straight again. She suddenly realized that she was shivering. What a bore! She must be catching cold! But the bus _did_ seem frigid. She could scarcely keep her teeth from chattering. And now a new vexation caught her attention. In spite of the almost opaque wall of fog, the bus driver was steadily increasing the speed of his vehicle. The bus careened along at a constantly accelerated rate, bumping and lurching and swaying from side to side. Martha felt a funny little knot of fear and apprehension begin to tighten in her breast. For a block or two she held tight to her seat, stifling an urge to shout at the driver, but finally she could stand it no longer. "Driver," she called out in a strained voice which didn't sound at all like her own, "you're going much too fast! Won't you please slow down?"