and sunstroke, and simooms, and such things, but the peg prevented it,

and it had to be content with pointing to the mere commonplace "very
dry."

Meanwhile, the rain came down in a steady torrent, and the lower part of
the town was under water, owing to the river having overflowed.

Boots said it was evident that we were going to have a prolonged spell of
grand weather SOME TIME, and read out a poem which was printed over the

top of the oracle, about
"Long foretold, long last;

Short notice, soon past."
The fine weather never came that summer. I expect that machine must have

been referring to the following spring.
Then there are those new style of barometers, the long straight ones. I

never can make head or tail of those. There is one side for 10 a.m.
yesterday, and one side for 10 a.m. to-day; but you can't always get

there as early as ten, you know. It rises or falls for rain and fine,
with much or less wind, and one end is "Nly" and the other "Ely" (what's

Ely got to do with it?), and if you tap it, it doesn't tell you anything.
And you've got to correct it to sea-level, and reduce it to Fahrenheit,

and even then I don't know the answer.
But who wants to be foretold the weather? It is bad enough when it

comes, without our having the misery of knowing about it beforehand. The
prophet we like is the old man who, on the particularly gloomy-looking

morning of some day when we particularly want it to be fine, looks round
the horizon with a particularly knowing eye, and says:

"Oh no, sir, I think it will clear up all right. It will break all right
enough, sir."

"Ah, he knows", we say, as we wish him good-morning, and start off;
"wonderful how these old fellows can tell!"

And we feel an affection for that man which is not at all lessened by the
circumstances of its NOT clearing up, but continuing to rain steadily all

day.
"Ah, well," we feel, "he did his best."

For the man that prophesies us bad weather, on the contrary, we entertain
only bitter and revengeful thoughts.

"Going to clear up, d'ye think?" we shout, cheerily, as we pass.
"Well, no, sir; I'm afraid it's settled down for the day," he replies,

shaking his head.
"Stupid old fool!" we mutter, "what's HE know about it?" And, if his

portent proves correct, we come back feeling still more angry against
him, and with a vague notion that, somehow or other, he has had something

to do with it.
It was too bright and sunny on this especial morning for George's blood-

curdling readings about "Bar. falling," "atmospheric disturbance, passing
in an oblique line over Southern Europe," and "pressure increasing," to

very much upset us: and so, finding that he could not make us wretched,
and was only wasting his time, he sneaked the cigarette that I had

carefully rolled up for myself, and went.
Then Harris and I, having finished up the few things left on the table,

carted out our luggage on to the doorstep, and waited for a cab.
There seemed a good deal of luggage, when we put it all together. There

was the Gladstone and the small hand-bag, and the two hampers, and a
large roll of rugs, and some four or five overcoats and macintoshes, and

a few umbrellas, and then there was a melon by itself in a bag, because
it was too bulky to go in anywhere, and a couple of pounds of grapes in

another bag, and a Japanese paper umbrella, and a frying pan, which,
being too long to pack, we had wrapped round with brown paper.

It did look a lot, and Harris and I began to feel rather ashamed of it,
though why we should be, I can't see. No cab came by, but the street

boys did, and got interested in the show, apparently, and stopped.
Biggs's boy was the first to come round. Biggs is our greengrocer, and

his chief talent lies in securing the services of the most abandoned and
unprincipled errand-boys that civilisation has as yet produced. If

anything more than usually villainous in the boy-line crops up in our
neighbourhood, we know that it is Biggs's latest. I was told that, at

the time of the Great Coram Street murder, it was promptly concluded by
our street that Biggs's boy (for that period) was at the bottom of it,

and had he not been able, in reply to the severe cross-examination to
which he was subjected by No. 19, when he called there for orders the

morning after the crime (assisted by No. 21, who happened to be on the
step at the time), to prove a complete ALIBI, it would have gone hard

with him. I didn't know Biggs's boy at that time, but, from what I have
seen of them since, I should not have attached much importance to that

ALIBI myself.
Biggs's boy, as I have said, came round the corner. He was evidently in

a great hurry when he first dawned upon the vision, but, on catching
sight of Harris and me, and Montmorency, and the things, he eased up and

stared. Harris and I frowned at him. This might have wounded a more
sensitive nature, but Biggs's boys are not, as a rule, touchy. He came

to a dead stop, a yard from our step, and, leaning up against the
railings, and selecting a straw to chew, fixed us with his eye. He

evidently meant to see this thing out.
In another moment, the grocer's boy passed on the opposite side of the

street. Biggs's boy hailed him:
"Hi! ground floor o' 42's a-moving."

The grocer's boy came across, and took up a position on the other side of
the step. Then the young gentleman from the boot-shop stopped, and

joined Biggs's boy; while the empty-can superintendent from "The Blue
Posts" took up an independent position on the curb.

"They ain't a-going to starve, are they? " said the gentleman from the
boot-shop.

"Ah! you'd want to take a thing or two with YOU," retorted "The Blue
Posts," "if you was a-going to cross the Atlantic in a small boat."

"They ain't a-going to cross the Atlantic," struck in Biggs's boy;
"they're a-going to find Stanley."

By this time, quite a small crowd had collected, and people were asking
each other what was the matter. One party (the young and giddy portion

of the crowd) held that it was a wedding, and pointed out Harris as the
bridegroom; while the elder and more thoughtful among the populace

inclined to the idea that it was a funeral, and that I was probably the
corpse's brother.

At last, an empty cab turned up (it is a street where, as a rule, and
when they are not wanted, empty cabs pass at the rate of three a minute,

and hang about, and get in your way), and packing ourselves and our
belongings into it, and shooting out a couple of Montmorency's friends,

who had evidently sworn never to forsake him, we drove away amidst the
cheers of the crowd, Biggs's boy shying a carrot after us for luck.

We got to Waterloo at eleven, and asked where the eleven-five started
from. Of course nobody knew; nobody at Waterloo ever does know where a

train is going to start from, or where a train when it does start is
going to, or anything about it. The porter who took our things thought

it would go from number two platform, while another porter, with whom he
discussed the question, had heard a rumour that it would go from number

one. The station-master, on the other hand, was convinced it would start
from the local.

To put an end to the matter, we went upstairs, and asked the traffic
superintendent, and he told us that he had just met a man, who said he

had seen it at number three platform. We went to number three platform,
but the authorities there said that they rather thought that train was

the Southampton express, or else the Windsor loop. But they were sure it
wasn't the Kingston train, though why they were sure it wasn't they

couldn't say.
Then our porter said he thought that must be it on the high-level

platform; said he thought he knew the train. So we went to the high-
level platform, and saw the engine-driver, and asked him if he was going

to Kingston. He said he couldn't say for certain of course, but that he