PLANS DISCUSSED. - PLEASURES OF "CAMPING-OUT," ON FINE NIGHTS. - DITTO,WET NIGHTS. - COMPROMISE DECIDED ON. - MONTMORENCY, FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF.

　　- FEARS LEST HE IS TOO GOOD FOR THIS WORLD, FEARS SUBSEQUENTLY DISMISSEDAS GROUNDLESS. - MEETING ADJOURNS.

　　WE pulled out the maps, and discussed plans.

　　We arranged to start on the following Saturday from Kingston. Harris andI would go down in the morning, and take the boat up to Chertsey, andGeorge, who would not be able to get away from the City till theafternoon (George goes to sleep at a bank from ten to four each day,except Saturdays, when they wake him up and put him outside at two),would meet us there.

　　Should we "camp out" or sleep at inns?

　　George and I were for camping out. We said it would be so wild and free,so patriarchal like.

　　Slowly the golden memory of the dead sun fades from the hearts of thecold, sad clouds. Silent, like sorrowing children, the birds have ceasedtheir song, and only the moorhen's plaintive cry and the harsh croak ofthe corncrake stirs the awed hush around the couch of waters, where thedying day breathes out her last.

　　From the dim woods on either bank, Night's ghostly army, the greyshadows, creep out with noiseless tread to chase away the lingering rear-guard of the light, and pass, with noiseless, unseen feet, above thewaving river-grass, and through the sighing rushes; and Night, upon hersombre throne, folds her black wings above the darkening world, and, fromher phantom palace, lit by the pale stars, reigns in stillness.

　　Then we run our little boat into some quiet nook, and the tent ispitched, and the frugal supper cooked and eaten. Then the big pipes arefilled and lighted, and the pleasant chat goes round in musicalundertone; while, in the pauses of our talk, the river, playing round theboat, prattles strange old tales and secrets, sings low the old child'ssong that it has sung so many thousand years - will sing so many thousandyears to come, before its voice grows harsh and old - a song that we, whohave learnt to love its changing face, who have so often nestled on itsyielding bosom, think, somehow, we understand, though we could not tellyou in mere words the story that we listen to.

　　And we sit there, by its margin, while the moon, who loves it too, stoopsdown to kiss it with a sister's kiss, and throws her silver arms aroundit clingingly; and we watch it as it flows, ever singing, everwhispering, out to meet its king, the sea - till our voices die away insilence, and the pipes go out - till we, common-place, everyday young menenough, feel strangely full of thoughts, half sad, half sweet, and do notcare or want to speak - till we laugh, and, rising, knock the ashes fromour burnt-out pipes, and say "Good-night," and, lulled by the lappingwater and the rustling trees, we fall asleep beneath the great, stillstars, and dream that the world is young again - young and sweet as sheused to be ere the centuries of fret and care had furrowed her fair face,ere her children's sins and follies had made old her loving heart - sweetas she was in those bygone days when, a new-made mother, she nursed us,her children, upon her own deep breast - ere the wiles of paintedcivilization had lured us away from her fond arms, and the poisonedsneers of artificiality had made us ashamed of the simple life we ledwith her, and the simple, stately home where mankind was born so manythousands years ago.

　　Harris said:

　　"How about when it rained?"You can never rouse Harris. There is no poetry about Harris - no wildyearning for the unattainable. Harris never "weeps, he knows not why."If Harris's eyes fill with tears, you can bet it is because Harris hasbeen eating raw onions, or has put too much Worcester over his chop.

　　If you were to stand at night by the sea-shore with Harris, and say:

　　"Hark! do you not hear? Is it but the mermaids singing deep below thewaving waters; or sad spirits, chanting dirges for white corpses, held byseaweed?" Harris would take you by the arm, and say:

　　"I know what it is, old man; you've got a chill. Now, you come alongwith me. I know a place round the corner here, where you can get a dropof the finest Scotch whisky you ever tasted - put you right in less thanno time."Harris always does know a place round the corner where you can getsomething brilliant in the drinking line. I believe that if you metHarris up in Paradise (supposing such a thing likely), he wouldimmediately greet you with:

　　"So glad you've come, old fellow; I've found a nice place round thecorner here, where you can get some really first-class nectar."In the present instance, however, as regarded the camping out, hispractical view of the matter came as a very timely hint. Camping out inrainy weather is not pleasant.

　　It is evening. You are wet through, and there is a good two inches ofwater in the boat, and all the things are damp. You find a place on thebanks that is not quite so puddly as other places you have seen, and youland and lug out the tent, and two of you proceed to fix it.

　　It is soaked and heavy, and it flops about, and tumbles down on you, andclings round your head and makes you mad. The rain is pouring steadilydown all the time. It is difficult enough to fix a tent in dry weather:

　　in wet, the task becomes herculean. Instead of helping you, it seems toyou that the other man is simply playing the fool. Just as you get yourside beautifully fixed, he gives it a hoist from his end, and spoils itall.

　　"Here! what are you up to?" you call out.

　　"What are YOU up to?" he retorts; "leggo, can't you?""Don't pull it; you've got it all wrong, you stupid ass!" you shout.

　　"No, I haven't," he yells back; "let go your side!""I tell you you've got it all wrong!" you roar, wishing that you couldget at him; and you give your ropes a lug that pulls all his pegs out.

　　"Ah, the bally idiot!" you hear him mutter to himself; and then comes asavage haul, and away goes your side. You lay down the mallet and startto go round and tell him what you think about the whole business, and, atthe same time, he starts round in the same direction to come and explainhis views to you. And you follow each other round and round, swearing atone another, until the tent tumbles down in a heap, and leaves youlooking at each other across its ruins, when you both indignantlyexclaim, in the same breath:

　　"There you are! what did I tell you?"Meanwhile the third man, who has been baling out the boat, and who hasspilled the water down his sleeve, and has been cursing away to himselfsteadily for the last ten minutes, wants to know what the thunderingblazes you're playing at, and why the blarmed tent isn't up yet.

　　At last, somehow or other, it does get up, and you land the things. Itis hopeless attempting to make a wood fire, so you light the methylatedspirit stove, and crowd round that.

　　Rainwater is the chief article of diet at supper. The bread is two-thirds rainwater, the beefsteak-pie is exceedingly rich in it, and thejam, and the butter, and the salt, and the coffee have all combined withit to make soup.

　　After supper, you find your tobacco is damp, and you cannot smoke.

　　Luckily you have a bottle of the stuff that cheers and inebriates, iftaken in proper quantity, and this restores to you sufficient interest inlife to induce you to go to bed.

　　There you dream that an elephant has suddenly sat down on your chest, andthat the volcano has exploded and thrown you down to the bottom of thesea - the elephant still sleeping peacefully on your bosom. You wake upand grasp the idea that something terrible really has happened. Yourfirst impression is that the end of the world has come; and then youthink that this cannot be, and that it is thieves and murderers, or elsefire, and this opinion you express in the usual method. No help comes,however, and all you know is that thousands of people are kicking you,and you are being smothered.

　　Somebody else seems in trouble, too. You can hear his faint cries comingfrom underneath your bed. Determining, at all events, to sell your lifedearly, you struggle frantically, hitting out right and left with armsand legs, and yelling lustily the while, and at last something gives way,and you find your head in the fresh air. Two feet off, you dimly observea half-dressed ruffian, waiting to kill you, and you are preparing for alife-and-death struggle with him, when it begins to dawn upon you thatit's Jim.

　　"Oh, it's you, is it?" he says, recognising you at the same moment.

　　"Yes," you answer, rubbing your eyes; "what's happened?""Bally tent's blown down, I think," he says.

　　"Where's Bill?"Then you both raise up your voices and shout for "Bill!" and the groundbeneath you heaves and rocks, and the muffled voice that you heard beforereplies from out the ruin:

　　"Get off my head, can't you?"And Bill struggles out, a muddy, trampled wreck, and in an unnecessarilyaggressive mood - he being under the evident belief that the whole thinghas been done on purpose.

　　In the morning you are all three speechless, owing to having caughtsevere colds in the night; you also feel very quarrelsome, and you swearat each other in hoarse whispers during the whole of breakfast time.

　　We therefore decided that we would sleep out on fine nights; and hotelit, and inn it, and pub. it, like respectable folks, when it was wet, orwhen we felt inclined for a change.

　　Montmorency hailed this compromise with much approval. He does not revelin romantic solitude. Give him something noisy; and if a trifle low, somuch the jollier. To look at Montmorency you would imagine that he wasan angel sent upon the earth, for some reason withheld from mankind, inthe shape of a small fox-terrier. There is a sort of Oh-what-a-wicked-world-this-is-and-how-I-wish-I-could-do-something-to-make-it-better-and-nobler expression about Montmorency that has been known to bring thetears into the eyes of pious old ladies and gentlemen.

　　When first he came to live at my expense, I never thought I should beable to get him to stop long. I used to sit down and look at him, as hesat on the rug and looked up at me, and think: "Oh, that dog will neverlive. He will be snatched up to the bright skies in a chariot, that iswhat will happen to him."But, when I had paid for about a dozen chickens that he had killed; andhad dragged him, growling and kicking, by the scruff of his neck, out ofa hundred and fourteen street fights; and had had a dead cat broughtround for my inspection by an irate female, who called me a murderer; andhad been summoned by the man next door but one for having a ferocious dogat large, that had kept him pinned up in his own tool-shed, afraid toventure his nose outside the door for over two hours on a cold night; andhad learned that the gardener, unknown to myself, had won thirtyshillings by backing him to kill rats against time, then I began to thinkthat maybe they'd let him remain on earth for a bit longer, after all.

　　To hang about a stable, and collect a gang of the most disreputable dogsto be found in the town, and lead them out to march round the slums tofight other disreputable dogs, is Montmorency's idea of "life;" and so,as I before observed, he gave to the suggestion of inns, and pubs., andhotels his most emphatic approbation.

　　Having thus settled the sleeping arrangements to the satisfaction of allfour of us, the only thing left to discuss was what we should take withus; and this we had begun to argue, when Harris said he'd had enoughoratory for one night, and proposed that we should go out and have asmile, saying that he had found a place, round by the square, where youcould really get a drop of Irish worth drinking.

　　George said he felt thirsty (I never knew George when he didn't); and, asI had a presentiment that a little whisky, warm, with a slice of lemon,would do my complaint good, the debate was, by common assent, adjournedto the following night; and the assembly put on its hats and went out.