ook of the
place where the statue stood.

Then we accompanied him to his favourite beer hall, and sat beside him,
telling him anecdotes of men who, unaccustomed to German beer, and
drinking too much of it, had gone mad and developed homicidal mania; of
men who had died young through drinking German beer; of lovers that
German beer had been the means of parting for ever from beautiful girls.

At ten o'clock we started to walk back to the hotel. It was a stormy-
looking night, with heavy clouds drifting over a light moon. Harris
said:

"We won't go back the same way we came; we'll walk back by the river. It
is lovely in the moonlight."

Harris told a sad history, as we walked, about a man he once knew, who is
now in a home for harmless imbeciles. He said he recalled the story
because it was on just such another night as this that he was walking
with that man the very last time he ever saw the poor fellow. They were
strolling down the Thames Embankment, Harris said, and the man frightened
him then by persisting that he saw the statue of the Duke of Wellington
at the corner of Westminster Bridge, when, as everybody knows, it stands
in Piccadilly.

It was at this exact instant that we came in sight of the first of these
wooden copies. It occupied the centre of a small, railed-in square a
little above us on the opposite side of the way. George suddenly stood
still and leant against the wall of the quay.

"What's the matter?" I said; "feeling giddy?"

He said: "I do, a little. Let's rest here a moment."

He stood there with his eyes glued to the thing.

He said, speaking huskily:

"Talking of statues, what always strikes me is how very much one statue
is like another statue."

Harris said: "I cannot agree with you there--pictures, if you like. Some
pictures are very like other pictures, but with a statue there is always
something distinctive. Take that statue we saw early in the evening,"
continued Harris, "before we went into the concert hall. It represented
a man sitting on a horse. In Prague you will see other statues of men on
horses, but nothing at all like that one."

"Yes they are," said George; "they are all alike. It's always the same
horse, and it's always the same man. They are all exactly alike. It's
idiotic nonsense to say they are not."

He appeared to be angry with Harris.

"What makes you think so?" I asked.

"What makes me think so?" retorted George, now turning upon me. "Why