The food question.—Objections to paraffine oil as an
atmosphere.—Advantages of cheese as a travelling companion.—A married
woman deserts her home.—Further provision for getting upset.—I
pack.—Cussedness of tooth-brushes.—George and Harris pack.—Awful
behaviour of Montmorency.—We retire to rest.
Then we discussed the food question. George said:
“Begin with breakfast.” (George is so practical.) “Now for breakfast
we shall want a frying-pan”—(Harris said it was indigestible; but we
merely urged him not to be an ass, and George went on)—“a tea-pot and a
kettle, and a methylated spirit stove.”
“No oil,” said George, with a significant look; and Harris and I agreed.
We had taken up an oil-stove once, but “never again.” It had been like
living in an oil-shop that week. It oozed. I never saw such a thing as
paraffine oil is to ooze. We kept it in the nose of the boat, and, from
there, it oozed down to the rudder, impregnating the whole boat and
everything in it on its way, and it oozed over the river, and saturated
the scenery and spoilt the atmosphere. Sometimes a westerly oily wind
blew, and at other times an easterly oily wind, and sometimes it blew
a northerly oily wind, and maybe a southerly oily wind; but whether it
came from the Arctic snows, or was raised in the waste of the desert
sands, it came alike to us laden with the fragrance of paraffine oil.
And that oil oozed up and ruined the sunset; and as for the moonbeams,
they positively reeked of paraffine.
We tried to get away from it at Marlow. We left the boat by the bridge,
and took a walk through the town to escape it, but it followed us. The
whole town was full of oil. We passed through the church-yard, and it
seemed as if the people had been buried in oil. The High Street stunk
of oil; we wondered how people could live in it. And we walked miles
upon miles out Birmingham way; but it was no use, the country was
steeped in oil.
At the end of that trip we met together at midnight in a lonely field,
under a blasted oak, and took an awful oath (we had been swearing for a
whole week about the thing in an ordinary, middle-class way, but this
was a swell affair)—an awful oath never to take paraffine oil with us
in a boat again-except, of course, in case of sickness.
Therefore, in the present instance, we confined ourselves to methylated
spirit. Even that is bad enough. You get methylated pie and methylated
cake. But methylated spirit is more wholesome when taken into the
system in large quantities than paraffine oil.
For other breakfast things, George suggested eggs and bacon, which were
easy to cook, cold meat, tea, bread and butter, and jam. For lunch, he
said, we could have biscuits, cold meat, bread and butter, and jam—but
_no cheese_. Cheese, like oil, makes too much of itself. It wants the
whole boat to itself. It goes through the hamper, and gives a cheesy
flavour to everything else there. You can’t tell whether you are eating
apple-pie or German sausage, or strawberries and cream. It all seems
cheese. There is too much odour about cheese.
I remember a friend of mine, buying a couple of cheeses at Liverpool.
Splendid cheeses they were, ripe and mellow, and with a two hundred
horse-power scent about them that might have been warranted to carry
three miles, and knock a man over at two hundred yards. I was in
Liverpool at the time, and my friend said that if I didn’t mind he
would get me to take them back with me to London, as he should not be
coming up for a day or two himself, and he did not think the cheeses
ought to be kept much longer.
“Oh, with pleasure, dear boy,” I replied, “with pleasure.”
I called for the cheeses, and took them away in a cab. It was a
ramshackle affair, dragged along by a knock-kneed, broken-winded
somnambulist, which his owner, in a moment of enthusiasm, during
conversation, referred to as a horse. I put the cheeses on the top,
and we started off at a shamble that would have done credit to the
swiftest steam-roller ever built, and all went merry as a funeral
bell, until we turned the corner. There, the wind carried a whiff from
the cheeses full on to our steed. It woke him up, and, with a snort
of terror, he dashed off at three miles an hour. The wind still blew
in his direction, and before we reached the end of the street he was
laying himself out at the rate of nearly four miles an hour, leaving
the cripples and stout old ladies simply nowhere.
It took two porters as well as the driver to hold him in at the
station; and I do not think they would have done it, even then, had not
one of the men had the presence of mind to put a handkerchief over his
nose, and to light a bit of brown paper.
I took my ticket, and marched proudly up the platform, with my cheeses,
the people falling back respectfully on either side. The train was
crowded, and I had to get into a carriage where there were already
seven other people. One crusty old gentleman objected, but I got in,
notwithstanding; and, putting my cheeses upon the rack, squeezed down
with a pleasant smile, and said it was a warm day.
A few moments passed, and then the old gentleman began to fidget.
“Very close in here,” he said.
“Quite oppressive,” said the man next him.
And then they both began sniffing, and, at the third sniff, they
caught it right on the chest, and rose up without another word and
went out. And then a stout lady got up, and said it was disgraceful
that a respectable married woman should be harried about in this way,
and gathered up a bag and eight parcels and went. The remaining four
passengers sat on for a while, until a solemn-looking man in the
corner, who, from his dress and general appearance, seemed to belong
to the undertaker class, said it put him in mind of dead baby; and the
other three passengers tried to get out of the door at the same time,
and hurt themselves.
[Picture: Railway carriage]
I smiled at the black gentleman, and said I thought we were going to
have the carriage to ourselves; and he laughed pleasantly, and said
that some people made such a fuss over a little thing. But even he
grew strangely depressed after we had started, and so, when we reached
Crewe, I asked him to come and have a drink. He accepted, and we forced
our way into the buffet, where we yelled, and stamped, and waved our
umbrellas for a quarter of an hour; and then a young lady came, and
asked us if we wanted anything.
“What’s yours?” I said, turning to my friend.
“I’ll have half-a-crown’s worth of brandy, neat, if you please, miss,”
he responded.
And he went off quietly after he had drunk it and got into another
carriage, which I thought mean.
From Crewe I had the compartment to myself, though the train was
crowded. As we drew up at the different stations, the people, seeing
my empty carriage, would rush for it. “Here y’ are, Maria; come along,
plenty of room.” “All right, Tom; we’ll get in here,” they would shout.
And they would run along, carrying heavy bags, and fight round the
door to get in first. And one would open the door and mount the steps,
and stagger back into the arms of the man behind him; and they would
all come and have a sniff, and then droop off and squeeze into other
carriages, or pay the difference and go first.
From Euston, I took the cheeses down to my friend’s house. When his
wife came into the room she smelt round for an instant. Then she said:
“What is it? Tell me the worst.”
I said:
“It’s cheeses. Tom bought them in Liverpool, and asked me to bring them
up with me.”
And I added that I hoped she understood that it had nothing to do with
me; and she said that she was sure of that, but that she would speak to
Tom about it when he came back.
My friend was detained in Liverpool longer than he expected; and, three
days later, as he hadn’t returned home, his wife called on me. She said:
“What did Tom say about those cheeses?”
I replied that he had directed they were to be kept in a moist place,
and that nobody was to touch them.
She said:
“Nobody’s likely to touch them. Had he smelt them?”
I thought he had, and added that he seemed greatly attached to them.
“You think he would be upset,” she queried, “if I gave a man a
sovereign to take them away and bury them?”
I answered that I thought he would never smile again.
An idea struck her. She said:
“Do you mind keeping them for him? Let me send them round to you.”
“Madam,” I replied, “for myself I like the smell of cheese, and the
journey the other day with them from Liverpool I shall ever look back
upon as a happy ending to a pleasant holiday. But, in this world, we
must consider others. The lady under whose roof I have the honour of
residing is a widow, and, for all I know, possibly an orphan too. She
has a strong, I may say an eloquent, objection to being what she terms
‘put upon.’ The presence of your husband’s cheeses in her house she
would, I instinctively feel, regard as a ‘put upon’; and it shall never
be said that I put upon the widow and the orphan.”
“Very well, then,” said my friend’s wife, rising, “all I have to say
is, that I shall take the children and go to an hotel until those
cheeses are eaten. I decline to live any longer in the same house with
them.”
She kept her word, leaving the place in charge of the charwoman, who,
when asked if she could stand the smell, replied, “What smell?” and
who, when taken close to the cheeses and told to sniff hard, said she
could detect a faint odour of melons. It was argued from this that
little injury could result to the woman from the atmosphere, and she
was left.
The hotel bill came to fifteen guineas; and my friend, after reckoning
everything up, found that the cheeses had cost him eight-and-sixpence
a pound. He said he dearly loved a bit of cheese, but it was beyond
his means; so he determined to get rid of them. He threw them into the
canal; but had to fish them out again, as the bargemen complained.
They said it made them feel quite faint. And, after that, he took them
one dark night and left them in the parish mortuary. But the coroner
discovered them, and made a fearful fuss.
He said it was a plot to deprive him of his living by waking up the
corpses.
My friend got rid of them, at last, by taking them down to a sea-side
town, and burying them on the beach. It gained the place quite a
reputation. Visitors said they had never noticed before how strong the
air was, and weak-chested and consumptive people used to throng there
for years afterwards.
Fond as I am of cheese, therefore, I hold that George was right in
declining to take any.
“We shan’t want any tea,” said George (Harris’s face fell at this);
“but we’ll have a good round, square, slap-up meal at seven—dinner,
tea, and supper combined.”
Harris grew more cheerful. George suggested meat and fruit pies,
cold meat, tomatoes, fruit, and green stuff. For drink, we took some
wonderful sticky concoction of Harris’s, which you mixed with water and
called lemonade, plenty of tea, and a bottle of whisky, in case, as
George said, we got upset.
It seemed to me that George harped too much on the getting-upset idea.
It seemed to me the wrong spirit to go about the trip in.
But I’m glad we took the whisky.
We didn’t take beer or wine. They are a mistake up the river. They make
you feel sleepy and heavy. A glass in the evening when you are doing a
mouch round the town and looking at the girls is all right enough; but
don’t drink when the sun is blazing down on your head, and you’ve got
hard work to do.
We made a list of the things to be taken, and a pretty lengthy one it
was, before we parted that evening. The next day, which was Friday, we
got them all together, and met in the evening to pack. We got a big
Gladstone for the clothes, and a couple of hampers for the victuals and
the cooking utensils. We moved the table up against the window, piled
everything in a heap in the middle of the floor, and sat round and
looked at it.
I said I’d pack.
I rather pride myself on my packing. Packing is one of those many
things that I feel I know more about than any other person living. (It
surprises me myself, sometimes, how many of these subjects there are.)
I impressed the fact upon George and Harris, and told them that they
had better leave the whole matter entirely to me. They fell into the
suggestion with a readiness that had something uncanny about it. George
put on a pipe and spread himself over the easy-chair, and Harris cocked
his legs on the table and lit a cigar.
This was hardly what I intended. What I had meant, of course, was, that
I should boss the job, and that Harris and George should potter about
under my directions, I pushing them aside every now and then with, “Oh,
you—!” “Here, let me do it.” “There you are, simple enough!”—really
teaching them, as you might say. Their taking it in the way they did
irritated me. There is nothing does irritate me more than seeing other
people sitting about doing nothing when I’m working.
I lived with a man once who used to make me mad that way. He would loll
on the sofa and watch me doing things by the hour together, following
me round the room with his eyes, wherever I went. He said it did him
real good to look on at me, messing about. He said it made him feel
that life was not an idle dream to be gaped and yawned through, but a
noble task, full of duty and stern work. He said he often wondered now
how he could have gone on before he met me, never having anybody to
look at while they worked.
Now, I’m not like that. I can’t sit still and see another man slaving
and working. I want to get up and superintend, and walk round with
my hands in my pockets, and tell him what to do. It is my energetic
nature. I can’t help it.
However, I did not say anything, but started the packing. It seemed a
longer job than I had thought it was going to be; but I got the bag
finished at last, and I sat on it and strapped it.
“Ain’t you going to put the boots in?” said Harris.
And I looked round, and found I had forgotten them. That’s just like
Harris. He couldn’t have said a word until I’d got the bag shut and
strapped, of course. And George laughed—one of those irritating,
senseless, chuckle-headed, crack-jawed laughs of his. They do make me
so wild.
I opened the bag and packed the boots in; and then, just as I was
going to close it, a horrible idea occurred to me. Had I packed my
tooth-brush? I don’t know how it is, but I never do know whether I’ve
packed my tooth-brush.
My tooth-brush is a thing that haunts me when I’m travelling, and
makes my life a misery. I dream that I haven’t packed it, and wake up
in a cold perspiration, and get out of bed and hunt for it. And, in
the morning, I pack it before I have used it, and have to unpack again
to get it, and it is always the last thing I turn out of the bag; and
then I repack and forget it, and have to rush upstairs for it at the
last moment and carry it to the railway station, wrapped up in my
pocket-handkerchief.
[Picture: Boot] Of course I had to turn every mortal thing out now,
and, of course, I could not find it. I rummaged the things up into much
the same state that they must have been before the world was created,
and when chaos reigned. Of course, I found George’s and Harris’s
eighteen times over, but I couldn’t find my own. I put the things back
one by one, and held everything up and shook it. Then I found it inside
a boot. I repacked once more.
When I had finished, George asked if the soap was in. I said I didn’t
care a hang whether the soap was in or whether it wasn’t; and I
slammed the bag to and strapped it, and found that I had packed my
tobacco-pouch in it, and had to re-open it. It got shut up finally at
10.05 p.m., and then there remained the hampers to do. Harris said that
we should be wanting to start in less than twelve hours’ time, and
thought that he and George had better do the rest; and I agreed and sat
down, and they had a go.
They began in a light-hearted spirit, evidently intending to show me
how to do it. I made no comment; I only waited. When George is hanged,
Harris will be the worst packer in this world; and I looked at the
piles of plates and cups, and kettles, and bottles and jars, and pies,
and stoves, and cakes, and tomatoes, &c., and felt that the thing would
soon become exciting.
It did. They started with breaking a cup. That was the first thing they
did. They did that just to show you what they _could_ do, and to get
you interested.
Then Harris packed the strawberry jam on top of a tomato and squashed
it, and they had to pick out the tomato with a teaspoon.
And then it was George’s turn, and he trod on the butter. I didn’t say
anything, but I came over and sat on the edge of the table and watched
them. It irritated them more than anything I could have said. I felt
that. It made them nervous and excited, and they stepped on things, and
put things behind them, and then couldn’t find them when they wanted
them; and they packed the pies at the bottom, and put heavy things on
top, and smashed the pies in.
They upset salt over everything, and as for the butter! I never saw two
men do more with one-and-twopence worth of butter in my whole life than
they did. After George had got it off his slipper, they tried to put it
in the kettle. It wouldn’t go in, and what _was_ in wouldn’t come out.
They did scrape it out at last, and put it down on a chair, and Harris
sat on it, and it stuck to him, and they went looking for it all over
the room.
“I’ll take my oath I put it down on that chair,” said George, staring
at the empty seat.
“I saw you do it myself, not a minute ago,” said Harris.
Then they started round the room again looking for it; and then they
met again in the centre, and stared at one another.
“Most extraordinary thing I ever heard of,” said George.
“So mysterious!” said Harris.
Then George got round at the back of Harris and saw it.
“Why, here it is all the time,” he exclaimed, indignantly.
“Where?” cried Harris, spinning round.
“Stand still, can’t you!” roared George, flying after him.
And they got it off, and packed it in the teapot.
Montmorency was in it all, of course. Montmorency’s ambition in life,
is to get in the way and be sworn at. If he can squirm in anywhere
where he particularly is not wanted, and be a perfect nuisance, and
make people mad, and have things thrown at his head, then he feels his
day has not been wasted.
To get somebody to stumble over him, and curse him steadily for an
hour, is his highest aim and object; and, when he has succeeded in
accomplishing this, his conceit becomes quite unbearable.
He came and sat down on things, just when they were wanted to be
packed; and he laboured under the fixed belief that, whenever Harris
or George reached out their hand for anything, it was his cold, damp
nose that they wanted. He put his leg into the jam, and he worried the
teaspoons, and he pretended that the lemons were rats, and got into the
hamper and killed three of them before Harris could land him with the
frying-pan.
Harris said I encouraged him. I didn’t encourage him. A dog like that
don’t want any encouragement. It’s the natural, original sin that is
born in him that makes him do things like that.
The packing was done at 12.50; and Harris sat on the big hamper, and
said he hoped nothing would be found broken. George said that if
anything was broken it was broken, which reflection seemed to comfort
him. He also said he was ready for bed. We were all ready for bed.
Harris was to sleep with us that night, and we went upstairs.
We tossed for beds, and Harris had to sleep with me. He said:
“Do you prefer the inside or the outside, J.?”
I said I generally preferred to sleep _inside_ a bed.
Harris said it was old.
George said:
“What time shall I wake you fellows?”
Harris said:
“Seven.”
I said:
“No—six,” because I wanted to write some letters.
Harris and I had a bit of a row over it, but at last split the
difference, and said half-past six.
“Wake us at 6.30, George,” we said.
George made no answer, and we found, on going over, that he had been
asleep for some time; so we placed the bath where he could tumble into
it on getting out in the morning, and went to bed ourselves.
[Picture: Luggage with dog on top]