THE CAT: "Good-morning."
Then the cat rose, and continued his trot; and Montmorency, fitting what

he calls his tail carefully into its groove, came back to us, and took up
an unimportant position in the rear.

To this day, if you say the word "Cats!" to Montmorency, he will visibly
shrink and look up piteously at you, as if to say:

"Please don't."
We did our marketing after breakfast, and revictualled the boat for three

days. George said we ought to take vegetables - that it was unhealthy
not to eat vegetables. He said they were easy enough to cook, and that

he would see to that; 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, and other things we

foraged round about the town for.
Our departure from Marlow I regard as one of our greatest successes. It

was dignified and impressive, without being ostentatious. We had
insisted at all the shops we had been to that the things should be sent

with us then and there. None of your "Yes, sir, I will send them off at
once: the boy will be down there before you are, sir!" and then fooling

about on the landing-stage, and going back to the shop twice to have a
row about them, for us. We waited while the basket was packed, and took

the boy with us.
We went to a good many shops, adopting this principle at each one; and

the consequence was that, by the time we had finished, we had as fine a
collection of boys with baskets following us around as heart could

desire; and our final march down the middle of the High Street, to the
river, must have been as imposing a spectacle as Marlow had seen for many

a long day.
The order of the procession was as follows:-

Montmorency, carrying a stick.
Two disreputable-looking curs, friends of Montmorency's.

George, carrying coats and rugs, and smoking a short pipe.
Harris, trying to walk with easy grace,

while carrying a bulged-out Gladstone bag 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,

and trying to look as if I didn't know it.
Six small boys, and four stray dogs.

When we got down to the landing-stage, the boatman said:
"Let me see, sir; was yours a steam-launch or a house-boat?"

On our informing him it was a double-sculling skiff, he seemed surprised.
We had a good deal of trouble with steam launches that morning. It was

just before the Henley week, and they were going up in large numbers;
some by themselves, some towing houseboats. I do hate steam launches: I

suppose every rowing man does. I never see a steam launch but I feel I
should like to lure it to a lonely part of the river, and there, in the

silence and the solitude, strangle it.
There is a blatant bumptiousness about a steam launch that has the knack

of rousing every evil instinct in my nature, and I yearn for the good old
days, when you could go about and tell people what you thought of them

with a hatchet and a bow and arrows. The expression on the face of the
man who, with his hands in his pockets, stands by the stern, smoking a

cigar, is sufficient to excuse a breach of the peace by itself; and the
lordly whistle for you to get out of the way would, I am confident,

ensure a verdict of "justifiable homicide" from any jury of river men.
They used to HAVE to whistle for us to get out of their way. If I may do

so, without appearing boastful, I think I can honestly say that our one
small boat, during that week, caused more annoyance and delay and

aggravation to the steam launches that we came across than all the other
craft on the river put together.

"Steam launch, coming!" one of us would cry out, on sighting the enemy in
the distance; and, in an instant, everything was got ready to receive

her. I would take the lines, and Harris and George would sit down beside
me, all of us with our backs to the launch, and the boat would drift out

quietly into mid-stream.
On would come the launch, whistling, and on we would go, drifting. At

about a hundred yards off, she would start whistling like mad, and the
people would come and lean over the side, and roar at us; but we never

heard them! Harris would be telling us an anecdote about his mother, and
George and I would not have missed a word of it for worlds.

Then that launch would give one final shriek of a whistle that would
nearly burst the boiler, and she would reverse her engines, and blow off

steam, and swing round and get aground; everyone on board of it would
rush to the bow and yell at us, and the people on the bank would stand

and shout to us, and all the other passing boats would stop and join in,
till the whole river for miles up and down was in a state of frantic

commotion. And then Harris would break off in the most interesting part
of his narrative, and look up with mild surprise, and say to George:

"Why, George, bless me, if here isn't a steam launch!"
And George would answer:

"Well, do you know, I THOUGHT I heard something!"
Upon which we would get nervous and confused, and not know how to get the

boat out of the way, and the people in the launch would crowd round and
instruct us:

"Pull your right - you, you idiot! back with your left. No, not YOU -
the other one - leave the lines alone, can't you - now, both together.

NOT THAT way. Oh, you - !"
Then they would lower a boat and come to our assistance; and, after

quarter of an hour's effort, would get us clean out of their way, so that
they could go on; and we would thank them so much, and ask them to give

us a tow. But they never would.
Another good way we discovered of irritating the aristocratic type of

steam launch, was to mistake them for a beanfeast, and ask them if they
were Messrs. Cubit's lot or the Bermondsey Good Templars, and could they

lend us a saucepan.
Old ladies, not accustomed to the river, are always intenselynervous of

steam launches. I remember going up once from Staines to Windsor - a
stretch of water peculiarly rich in these mechanical monstrosities - with

a party containing three ladies of this description. It was very
exciting. At the first glimpse of every steam launch that came in view,

they insisted on landing and sitting down on the bank until it was out of
sight again. They said they were very sorry, but that they owed it to

their families not to be fool-hardy.
We found ourselves short of water at Hambledon Lock; so we took our jar

and went up to the lock-keeper's house to beg for some.
George was our spokesman. He put on a winning smile, and said:

"Oh, please could you spare 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