ve in his adhesion; and our start
was fixed for early Wednesday morning.

CHAPTER IV

Why Harris considers alarm clocks unnecessary in a family--Social
instinct of the young--A child's thoughts about the morning--The
sleepless watchman--The mystery of him--His over anxiety--Night
thoughts--The sort of work one does before breakfast--The good sheep and
the bad--Disadvantages of being virtuous--Harris's new stove begins
badly--The daily out-going of my Uncle Podger--The elderly city man
considered as a racer--We arrive in London--We talk the language of the
traveller.

George came down on Tuesday evening, and slept at Harris's place. We
thought this a better arrangement than his own suggestion, which was that
we should call for him on our way and "pick him up." Picking George up
in the morning means picking him out of bed to begin with, and shaking
him awake--in itself an exhausting effort with which to commence the day;
helping him find his things and finish his packing; and then waiting for
him while he eats his breakfast, a tedious entertainment from the
spectator's point of view, full of wearisome repetition.

I knew that if he slept at "Beggarbush" he would be up in time; I have
slept there myself, and I know what happens. About the middle of the
night, as you judge, though in reality it may be somewhat later, you are
startled out of your first sleep by what sounds like a rush of cavalry
along the passage, just outside your door. Your half-awakened
intelligence fluctuates between burglars, the Day of Judgment, and a gas
explosion. You sit up in bed and listen intently. You are not kept
waiting long; the next moment a door is violently slammed, and somebody,
or something, is evidently coming downstairs on a tea-tray.

"I told you so," says a voice outside, and immediately some hard
substance, a head one would say from the ring of it, rebounds against the
panel of your door.

By this time you are charging madly round the room for your clothes.
Nothing is where you put it overnight, the articles most essential have
disappeared entirely; and meanwhile the murder, or revolution, or
whatever it is, continues unchecked. You pause for a moment, with your
head under the wardrobe, where you think you can see your slippers, to
listen to a steady, monotonous thumping upon a distant door. The victim,
you presume, has taken refuge there; they mean to have him out and finish
him. Will you be in time? The kn