THE MICROBE 



almost walk. One memorable summer, however, I 

 was voted old enough to appreciate Switzerland. Old 

 enough indeed ! My respected seniors little guessed 

 what hills and mountains had been to me this long 

 time. 



We were a party of eight, six grown-ups, an Oxford 

 freshman, and myself, aged seventeen. I had ascer- 

 tained that there were trout in Switzerland and the 

 rod went along — the one purchased for my father, 

 which had now, as foretold, been definitely handed 

 over. It got me into trouble at the very first start 

 off. For after a day or two in Paris, then in the hey- 

 day of the second empire, we were starting for Switzer- 

 land, and for some specific purpose or other I arrived 

 at the Paris station rather before the rest of the party. 

 To make sure no doubt that if all of our baggage went 

 wrong, a possibility that to a young and callow Briton 

 seemed imminent, my rod should not, I stuck to it, 

 and was walking up and down the platform with it in 

 my hand, waiting for the others. Now it so happened 

 that the screw of the spike at the end of the butt 

 had rusted in, and not being able to withdraw it, this, 

 to the French eye, apparently formidable spear-head 

 protruded beyond the case. I was presently tapped 

 on the shoulder by a gentleman in uniform who, 

 pointing to my Exmoor rod, asked me (I presume) 

 why I was carrying about a deadly weapon. My 

 French was that of the regulation two hours a week, 

 so contemptuously regarded at a public school, and 

 not calculated to oil the wheels of foreign travel. 



So I could only look helplessly round for some of our 

 party to come and ease the situation. In the mean- 



c 33 



