ON AND OFF THE TOWING PATH. 69 



I see myself that cold November day essaying 

 to jump across, burdened with overcoat, bait- 

 can, rod, gaff, and bag. My foot slips as I 

 take off, and I feel the oozy black mud engulf 

 my legs, and the icy water mount up to my 

 waist. I see a roaring fire in the tap -room 

 of the little country inn, before which I sit, 

 clad in a pair of trousers belonging to mine 

 host, the while my dripping nether raiment is 

 being dried in the kitchen. Mine host is a 

 man of 16 stone and portly withal, I scale but 

 9, and in the higher parts of his trousers there 

 is a superabundance of material for my needs. 

 For some mysterious reason the garment is 

 innocent of all buttons I The discovery is 

 startling, the effect embarrasing, for to stand 

 upright is to court catastrophe, and, perforce, 

 I sit for one hour and a half with legs rigidly 

 crossed, and a hand pressed firmly in either 

 trouser pocket. My own clothes are restored 

 to me, dried and brushed; even boots and 

 gaiters have been cleaned and polished ! yet 

 for all these services can neither the landlord 



