f you ask me, I
call the whole thing bally foolishness."

We were three to one, however, and the motion was carried.

CHAPTER II.

Plans discussed.--Pleasures of "camping-out," on fine nights.--Ditto, wet
nights.--Compromise decided on.--Montmorency, first impressions
of.--Fears lest he is too good for this world, fears subsequently
dismissed as groundless.--Meeting adjourns.

We pulled out the maps, and discussed plans.

We arranged to start on the following Saturday from Kingston. Harris and
I would go down in the morning, and take the boat up to Chertsey, and
George, who would not be able to get away from the City till the
afternoon (George goes to sleep at a bank from ten to four each day,
except Saturdays, when they wake him up and put him outside at two),
would meet us there.

Should we "camp out" or sleep at inns?

George and I were for camping out. We said it would be so wild and free,
so patriarchal like.

Slowly the golden memory of the dead sun fades from the hearts of the
cold, sad clouds. Silent, like sorrowing children, the birds have ceased
their song, and only the moorhen's plaintive cry and the harsh croak of
the corncrake stirs the awed hush around the couch of waters, where the
dying day breathes out her last.

From the dim woods on either bank, Night's ghostly army, the grey
shadows, creep out with noiseless tread to chase away the lingering
rear-guard of the light, and pass, with noiseless, unseen feet, above the
waving river-grass, and through the sighing rushes; and Night, upon her
sombre throne, folds her black wings above the darkening world, and, from
her phantom palace, lit by the pale stars, reigns in stillness.

[Picture: River scene]

Then we run our little boat into some quiet nook, and the tent is
pitched, and the frugal supper cooked and eaten. Then the big pipes are
filled and lighted, and the pleasant chat goes round in musical
undertone; while, in the pauses of our talk, the river, playing round the
boat, prattles strange old tales and secrets, sings low the old child's
song that it has sung so many thousand years--will sing so many thousand
years to come, before its voice grows harsh and old--a song that we, who
have learnt to love its changing face, who have so often nestled on its
yielding bosom, think, somehow, we understand, though we could not tell
you in mere words the story that we listen to.

And we sit there, by its margin