He pulled out his pipe and lit it.

Through the curls of blue smoke he watched the glitter on the water below, the prismatic dazzle of the clods where their glossy surface caught the sun, the lazy flap-flap of a heron crossing the valley, and he heard along the uplands the voice (sweetest of rural sounds, and, alas! now obsolete) of a farm-boy chanting to his team, "Brisk and Speedwell, Goodluck and Lively"-- and so sank by degrees into a soothing sleep.
When he awoke and looked lazily upwards, at first his eyes encountered gloom.

"Have I been sleeping all day ?" was his first thought, not without alarm.

But under the darkness a bright ray was stealing.

Mr.Fogo put up his hand and encountered his umbrella, carefully spread over his face for shade.
This was mysterious; he could swear the umbrella was folded and lying at his side when he dropped asleep.