Chapter XIII

Marlow is one of the pleasantest river centres. It is a lively little town; not very picturesque on the whole.

We got up early on the Monday morning at Marlow, and went for a bathe before breakfast; and, coming back, Montmorency made an awful joke. The only subject on which Montmorency and I have any serious difference of opinion is cats. I like cats; Montmorency does not.

When I meet a cat, I say, “Poor Pussy!” and stop down. And the cat arches its back, and wipes its nose up against my trousers; and all is gentleness and peace. When Montmorency meets a cat, the whole street knows about it. I do not blame the dog, because I take it that it is his nature.

I remember Haymarket Stores. All round about me were dogs, waiting for the return of their owners, who were shopping inside. There were a mastiff, and one or two collies, and a St. Bernard, a few retrievers and Newfoundlands, a boar-hound, a French poodle, a bull-dog, a few dogs about the size of rats, and a couple of Yorkshire tykes.

There they sat, patient, good, and thoughtful. A peacefulness reigned in that lobby. An air of calmness pervaded the room.

Then a sweet young lady entered, leading a meek little fox-terrier, and left him between the bull-dog and the poodle. He sat and looked about him for a minute. Then he yawned. Then he looked round at the other dogs, all silent, grave, and dignified.

He looked at the bull-dog on his right. He looked at the poodle on his left. Then, without a word of warning, without the shadow of a provocation, he bit that poodle’s near foreleg, and a yelp of agony rang through the lobby.

The result of his first experiment seemed satisfactory to him, and he determined to go on. He sprang over the poodle and vigorously attacked a collie, and the collie woke up, and immediately commenced a fierce and noisy contest with the poodle. Then Foxey came back to his own place, and caught the bull-dog by the ear, and tried to throw him away; and the bull-dog went for everything he could reach, including the hall-porter, which gave that dear little terrier the opportunity to enjoy an uninterrupted fight of his own with a tyke.

So the big dogs fought each other; and the little dogs fought among themselves, and were biting the legs of the big dogs.

The whole lobby was like hell. Men came with poles and ropes, and tried to separate the dogs, and the police were sent for.

And in the midst of the riot that sweet young lady returned, and snatched up that sweet little dog of hers. She took him into her arms, and kissed him, and asked him if he was killed, and what those great nasty dogs had been doing to him. And he gazed up into her face with a look that seemed to say, “Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come to take me away from this disgraceful scene!”

She said that the people at the Stores had no right to allow great savage dogs to be put with respectable people’s dogs.

Such is the nature of fox-terriers; and, therefore, I do not blame Montmorency for his tendency to row with cats.

We were, as I have said, returning from a dip, and a cat darted out from one of the houses in front of us, and began to trot across the road. Montmorency gave a cry of joy – the cry of a stern warrior who sees his enemy.

His victim was a large black cat. I never saw a larger cat, nor a more disreputable-looking cat. It had lost half its tail, and one of its ears. It was a long, strong animal.

Montmorency went for that poor cat at the rate of twenty miles an hour; but the cat did not hurry up – he did not understand that its life was in danger. It sat down in the middle of the road, and looked at Montmorency with a gentle, inquiring expression, that said:

“Yes! You want me?”

Montmorency stopped abruptly, and looked back at the cat.

THE CAT: “Can I do anything for you?”

MONTMORENCY: “No – no, thanks.”

THE CAT: “Please, tell me, if you really want anything, you know.”

MONTMORENCY: “Oh, no – not at all – certainly – don’t you trouble. I–I am afraid I’ve made a mistake. I thought I knew you. Sorry I disturbed you.”

THE CAT: “Not at all – quite a pleasure. Are you sure you don’t want anything, now?”

MONTMORENCY: “Not at all, thanks – not at all – very kind of you. Good morning.”

THE CAT: “Good morning.”

Then the cat rose, and continued his way. To this day, if you say the word “Cats!” to Montmorency, he will visibly shrink and look up piteously at you: “Please don’t.”

After breakfast we went to the market, and bought food for three days. George said we ought to take vegetables – that it was unhealthy not to eat vegetables. So we got ten pounds of potatoes, a bushel of peas, and a few cabbages. We got a beefsteak pie, a couple of gooseberry tarts, and a leg of mutton from the hotel; and fruit, and cakes, and bread and butter, and jam, and bacon and eggs.

Our departure from Marlow I regard as one of our greatest successes. The order of the procession was as follows: —

Montmorency, carrying a stick.

Two disreputable-looking friends of Montmorency’s.

George, carrying coats and rugs, and smoking a short pipe.

Harris, carrying a big suitcase in one hand and a bottle of lime-juice in the other.

Greengrocer’s boy and baker’s boy, with baskets.

Boots from the hotel, carrying hamper.

Confectioner’s boy, with basket.

Grocer’s boy, with basket.

Long-haired dog.

Cheesemonger’s boy, with basket.

Odd man carrying a bag.

Bosom companion of odd man, with his hands in his pockets, smoking a short clay.

Fruiterer’s boy, with basket.

Myself, carrying three hats and a pair of boots.

Six small boys, and four stray dogs.

We found that we did not have enough water; so we took our jar and went up to the lock-keeper’s house. George was our spokesman. He said:

“Oh, please could you give us a little water?”

“Certainly,” replied the old gentleman; “take as much as you want, and leave the rest.”

“Thank you so much,” murmured George, looking about him. “Where – where do you keep it?”

“It’s always in the same place my boy,” was the stolid reply, “just behind you.”

“I don’t see it,” said George, turning round.

“Why, where’s your eyes?” was the man’s comment, as he twisted George round and pointed up and down the river. “There’s enough of it!”

“Oh!” exclaimed George, grasping the idea. “But we can’t drink the river, you know!”

“No; but you can drink some of it,” replied the old fellow. “It’s what I’ve drunk for the last fifteen years.”

George told him that his appearance did not seem a good advertisement for this. We got some water from a cottage a little higher up. Maybe that was only river water, if we had known. But we did not know, so it was all right.

We tried river water once, later on in the season, but it was not a success. We were coming down stream, our jar was empty, and we decided to take some water from the river. Harris said it must be all right if we boiled the water. He said that the bacteria present in the water would be killed by the boiling. So we filled our kettle with Thames water, and boiled it.

We had made the tea, and were just settling down to drink it, when George paused and exclaimed:

“What’s that?”

“What’s what?” asked Harris and I.

“Why that!” said George, looking westward.

Harris and I saw, coming down towards us on the river, a dog. It was one of the quietest and peacefullest dogs I have ever seen. I never met a dog who seemed happier. It was floating dreamily on its back.

George said he didn’t want any tea, and emptied his cup into the water. Harris did not feel thirsty, either.

Chapter XIV

We got out at Sonning, and went for a walk round the village. It is more like a stage village than one built of bricks and mortar.

We roamed about sweet Sonning for an hour or so, and then George said that, as we had plenty of time, it would be a splendid opportunity to make a good supper. He said he would show us how to make an Irish stew.

It seemed a fascinating idea. George gathered wood and made a fire, and Harris and I started to peel the potatoes. I have never thought that peeling potatoes is such an undertaking. The more we peeled, the more peel there seemed to be left on; by the time we had got all the peel off and all the eyes out, there was no potato left. George came and said:

“Oh, that won’t do! You’re wasting them. You must scrape them.”

So we scraped them, and that was harder work than peeling. They are such an extraordinary shape, potatoes – all bumps and warts and hollows. We worked steadily for five-and-twenty minutes, and did four potatoes. Then we struck.

George said it was absurd to have only four potatoes in an Irish stew, so we washed half-a-dozen, and put them in without peeling. We also put in a cabbage and some peas. George stirred it all up, and then he said that we could add anything we wanted. There were half a pork pie and a bit of cold boiled bacon left, and we put them in. Then George found half a tin of salmon, and he emptied that into the pot.

He said that was the advantage of Irish stew: you could mix a lot of things. I fished out a couple of eggs that had got cracked, and put those in.

Montmorency brought a dead water-rat in his mouth, which he evidently wished to present as his contribution to the dinner.

We had a discussion as to whether the rat should go in or not. Harris said that he thought it would be all right, mixed up with the other things; but George said he had never heard of water-rats in Irish stew.

Harris said, “If you never try a new thing, how can you tell what it’s like? It’s men such as you that hamper the world’s progress. Think of the man who first tried German sausage!”

It was a great success, that Irish stew. I don’t think I ever enjoyed a meal more. There was something so fresh and piquant about it. Here was a dish with a new flavour, with a taste like nothing else on earth.

And it was nourishing, too.

We finished up with tea and cherry tart. Montmorency had a fight with the kettle during teatime. Throughout the trip, he had manifested great curiosity concerning the kettle. He would sit and watch it, as it boiled, with a puzzled expression.

At the first sound the kettle made, Montmorency rose, growling, and came to it in a threatening attitude. It was only a little kettle, but it was very brave and spit at him.

“Ah!” growled Montmorency, showing his teeth; “I’ll give you a good lesson! You miserable, longnosed, dirty-looking scoundrel. Come on!”

And he rushed at that poor little kettle. Then, crying from pain, Montmorency left the boat, and ran three times round the island at the rate of thirty-five miles an hour, stopping every now and then to bury his nose in a bit of cool mud.

From that day Montmorency regarded the kettle with a mixture of awe, suspicion, and hate.

George got out his banjo after supper, and wanted to play it, but Harris objected: he said he had got a headache. George said music often soothed the nerves and took away a headache; and he twanged two or three notes, just to show Harris what it was like.

Harris said he would rather have the headache.

George has never learned to play the banjo to this day. He tried on two or three evenings, but it was never a success. Montmorency would sit and howl steadily, right through the performance.

“Why does he howl when I’m playing?” George exclaimed indignantly.

“Why do you want to play when he is howling?” Harris retorted. “Let him alone. He’s got a musical ear, and your playing makes him howl.”

So George determined to postpone study of the banjo until he reached home. But he did not get much opportunity even there. Mrs. Poppets used to come up and say she was very sorry – for herself, she liked to hear him – but the lady upstairs was in a very delicate state, and the doctor was afraid it might injure the child.

Then George tried to play in the park. But the inhabitants complained to the police about it.

After supper George and I left Harris in the boat, and went for a walk round Henley. He said he should have a glass of whisky and a pipe, and fix things up for the night. We decided to shout when we returned, and he would row over from the island and fetch us.

“Don’t go to sleep, old man,” we said.

In Henley we met many men we knew about the town, and in their pleasant company the time slipped by very quickly; so that it was nearly eleven o’clock when we walked “home”.

It was a dismal night, cold, with a thin rain falling; and we thought of our cosy boat, of Harris and Montmorency, and the whisky, and wished that we were there.

We could see ourselves at supper there, eating meat, and passing each other chunks of bread; we could hear the cheery clatter of our knives, the laughing voices. And we hurried on to realise the vision.

Suddenly George said, thoughtfully:

“Do you remember which of the islands it was?”

“No,” I replied, “I don’t. How many are there?”

“Only four,” answered George. “It will be all right, if he’s awake.”

“And if not?” I queried.

We shouted when we came opposite the first island, but there was no response; so we went to the second, and tried there, and obtained the same result.

“Oh! I remember now,” said George, “it was the third one.”

And we ran on hopefully to the third one, and hallooed. No answer!

The case was becoming serious. It was now past midnight. The hotels would be full.

We tried what seemed in the darkness to be the fourth island, but met with no better success. The rain was coming down fast now. We began to wonder whether there were only four islands or more, or whether we were near the islands at all, or whether we were in the wrong part of the river.

Just when we had given up all hope – I suddenly caught sight of a strange, weird light among the trees on the opposite bank. I thought of ghosts: it was such a shadowy, mysterious light. The next moment I understood that it was our boat, and I sent up a loud yell across the water.

We waited breathless for a minute, and then we heard the answering bark of Montmorency. And, after what seemed an hour, but what was really, I suppose, about five minutes, we saw the lighted boat creeping slowly, and heard Harris’s sleepy voice asking where we were.