The Frenzy of Unrest 305 



Mrs. Bill's hot cakes are still a chaste memory. She 

 served them to four weary anglers under the trees, in the 

 open air, then, seizing a colossal syrup jug, she walked 

 around us and cried in dulcet tones, "puddle or trickle?" 

 Trickle seemed the most alluring and I chose it, and Mrs. 

 Bill (his fourth wife, very fat, very good-natured) turned 

 a trickling stream of syrup on the cakes in a fanciful design, 

 to a preternatural rag-time movement of the wrist. Jim 

 stood out for " puddle," to discover what it was, and the 

 lady poured the syrup on without the fanciful accompani- 

 ment, a literal puddle of sweets. 



Then there were trout and venison, a woodcock, more 

 cakes, both puddle and trickle, coffee brewed by the gods. 

 While we were playing havoc with the table another party 

 came in from up the lakes, and I heard Jim, amid roars of 

 laughter, telling them how " Walter Scott " " had writ the 

 poem only last week." 



