theory.

"I suppose the truth of the matter is," suggested George, descending to
the commonplace and practicable, "that there has been an earthquake."

And then he added, with a touch of sadness in his voice: "I wish he
hadn't been carving that pie."

With a sigh, we turned our eyes once more towards the spot where Harris
and the pie had last been seen on earth; and there, as our blood froze in

our veins and our hair stood up on end, we saw Harris's head - and
nothing but his head - sticking bolt upright among the tall grass, the

face very red, and bearing upon it an expression of great indignation!
George was the first to recover.

"Speak!" he cried, "and tell us whether you are alive or dead - and where
is the rest of you?"

"Oh, don't be a stupid ass!" said Harris's head. "I believe you did it
on purpose."

"Did what?" exclaimed George and I.
" Why, put me to sit here - darn silly trick! Here, catch hold of the

pie."
And out of the middle of the earth, as it seemed to us, rose the pie -

very much mixed up and damaged; and, after it, scrambled Harris -
tumbled, grubby, and wet.

He had been sitting, without knowing it, on the very verge of a small
gully, the long grass hiding it from view; and in leaning a little back

he had shot over, pie and all.
He said he had never felt so surprised in all his life, as when he first

felt himself going, without being able to conjecture in the slightest
what had happened. He thought at first that the end of the world had

come.
Harris believes to this day that George and I planned it all beforehand.

Thus does unjustsuspicion follow even the most blameless for, as the
poet says, "Who shall escape calumny?"

Who, indeed!
CHAPTER XIV.

WARGRAVE. - WAXWORKS. - SONNING. - OUR STEW. - MONTMORENCY IS SARCASTIC.
- FIGHT BETWEEN MONTMORENCY AND THE TEA-KETTLE. - GEORGE'S BANJO STUDIES.

- MEET WITH DISCOURAGEMENT. - DIFFICULTIES IN THE WAY OF THE MUSICAL
AMATEUR. - LEARNING TO PLAY THE BAGPIPES. - HARRIS FEELS SAD AFTER

SUPPER. - GEORGE AND I GO FOR A WALK. - RETURN HUNGRY AND WET. - THERE IS
A STRANGENESS ABOUT HARRIS. - HARRIS AND THE SWANS, A REMARKABLE STORY. -

HARRIS HAS A TROUBLED NIGHT.
WE caught a breeze, after lunch, which took us gently up past Wargrave

and Shiplake. Mellowed in the drowsysunlight of a summer's afternoon,
Wargrave, nestling where the river bends, makes a sweet old picture as

you pass it, and one that lingers long upon the retina of memory.
The "George and Dragon" at Wargrave boasts a sign, painted on the one

side by Leslie, R.A., and on the other by Hodgson of that ilk. Leslie
has depicted the fight; Hodgson has imagined the scene, "After the Fight"

- George, the work done, enjoying his pint of beer.
Day, the author of SANDFORD AND MERTON, lived and - more credit to the

place still - was killed at Wargrave. In the church is a memorial to
Mrs. Sarah Hill, who bequeathed 1 pound annually, to be divided at

Easter, between two boys and two girls who "have never been undutiful to
their parents; who have never been known to swear or to tell untruths, to

steal, or to break windows." Fancy giving up all that for five shillings
a year! It is not worth it.

It is rumoured in the town that once, many years ago, a boy appeared who
really never had done these things - or at all events, which was all that

was required or could be expected, had never been known to do them - and
thus won the crown of glory. He was exhibited for three weeks afterwards

in the Town Hall, under a glass case.
What has become of the money since no one knows. They say it is always

handed over to the nearest wax-works show.
Shiplake is a pretty village, but it cannot be seen from the river, being

upon the hill. Tennyson was married in Shiplake Church.
The river up to Sonning winds in and out through many islands, and is

very placid, hushed, and lonely. Few folk, except at twilight, a pair or
two of rustic lovers, walk along its banks. `Arry and Lord Fitznoodle

have been left behind at Henley, and dismal, dirty Reading is not yet
reached. It is a part of the river in which to dream of bygone days, and

vanished forms and faces, and things that might have been, but are not,
confound them.

We got out at Sonning, and went for a walk round the village. It is the
most fairy-like little nook on the whole river. It is more like a stage

village than one built of bricks and mortar. Every house is smothered in
roses, and now, in early June, they were bursting forth in clouds of

dainty splendour. If you stop at Sonning, put up at the "Bull," behind
the church. It is a veritable picture of an old country inn, with green,

square courtyard in front, where, on seats beneath the trees, the old men
group of an evening to drink their ale and gossip over village politics;

with low, quaint rooms and latticed windows, and awkward stairs and
winding passages.

We roamed about sweet Sonning for an hour or so, and then, it being too
late to push on past Reading, we decided to go back to one of the

Shiplake islands, and put up there for the night. It was still early
when we got settled, and George said that, as we had plenty of time, it

would be a splendid opportunity to try a good, slap-up supper. He said
he would show us what could be done up the river in the way of cooking,

and suggested that, with the vegetables and the remains of the cold beef
and general odds and ends, we should 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 should never have thought

that peeling potatoes was such an taking" target="_blank" title="n.任务；事业；计划">undertaking. The job turned out to be
the biggest thing of its kind that I had ever been in. We began

cheerfully, one might almost say skittishly, but our light-heartedness
was gone by the time the first potato was finished. 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 - at least none

worth speaking of. George came and had a look at it - it was about the
size of a pea-nut. He 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. We said we should require the rest of the evening for
scraping ourselves.

I never saw such a thing as potato-scraping for making a fellow in a
mess. It seemed difficult to believe that the potato-scrapings in which

Harris and I stood, half smothered, could have come off four potatoes.
It shows you what can be done with economy and care.

George said it was absurd to have only four potatoes in an Irish stew, so
we washed half-a-dozen or so more, and put them in without peeling. We

also put in a cabbage and about half a peck of peas. George stirred it
all up, and then he said that there seemed to be a lot of room to spare,

so we overhauled both the hampers, and picked out all the odds and ends
and the remnants, and added them to the stew. 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 potted salmon, and he emptied that into the pot.

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

those in. George said they would thicken the gravy.
I forget the other ingredients, but I know nothing was wasted; and I

remember that, towards the end, Montmorency, who had evinced great
interest in the proceedings throughout, strolled away with an earnest and

thoughtful air, reappearing, a few minutes afterwards, with a dead water-
rat in his mouth, which he evidently wished to present as his

contribution to the dinner; whether in a sarcastic spirit, or with a
genuine desire to assist, I cannot say.

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, and that every little helped; but George stood up for precedent.