274 



THE SALT OF MY LIFE 



that a week of May squandered in its company 

 in 1889 might, spent in the smell of oil, have given 

 another result in June. And then came the assur- 

 ance of that blessed Anglo-Indian that the goal 



NEARING THE END 



of my ambitions sixteen years ago would ere now 

 have been my tomb and the buoy is forgiven. 

 There is a gentle river in the soft West country, 

 more than once referred to in these pages, whereon 

 one evening I sat idly angling, when a messenger 



