th us the ray. This gentleman has a colossal appetite for oysters.
Scorning to deal with them by the dozen, he devours them by the
thousand, asking neither for the succulent lemon nor the grosser
addition of Chili vinegar. His action with the oyster is exceedingly
summary. He breaks the shell with a vigorous blow of his tail, and
gobbles up the contents. As it is stated by reputable authorities
that the _there_ can dispose of 100,000 oysters in a day, it is clear
that the tapping must be pretty persistent.

This selfish brute, regardless of the fact that we pay a minimum three
shillings a dozen for oysters in London, is happily circumvented by
an exceedingly simple device. Rowing about the oyster beds at Arcachon
one notices that they are fringed with small twigs of fir trees. The
natural supposition is that these are to mark the boundary of the
various oyster beds; but it is in truth designed to keep out the
_there_. This blundering fish, bearing down on the oyster bed in search
of luncheon, comes upon the palisade of loosely planted twigs. Nothing
in the world would be easier than for him to steer between the openings,
of which there are abundance. But though he has stomach enough for a
hundred thousand oysters, he has not brains enough to understand that
by a little manoeuvring he might get at his meal. Repelled by the open
network of twigs, he swims forlornly round and round the beds, so near
and yet so far, with what anguish of heart only the lover of oysters
can fathom.

The oyster beds at Arcachon belong to the State, and are leased to
private persons, the leading company, which has created the British
trade, having its headquarters at La Teste. The wholesale price of
oysters at Arcachon is from a sovereign to forty shillings a thousand,
according to size. In the long street they sell retail at from twopence
to eightpence a dozen, thus realising what seems to-day the hopeless
dream of the British oyster-eater.

CHAPTER IX.

CHRISTMAS EVE AT WATTS'S.

Wandering out of the High Street, Rochester, on the afternoon before
Christmas Day, by a narrow passage to the left I came upon the old
Cathedral. The doors were open, and as they were the only doors in
Rochester open to me, except, perhaps, those of the tramp house at the
Union, I entered, and sat down as near as befitted my condition. The
afternoon service was going on, and even to tired limbs and an empty
stomach it was restful and soothing to hear the s