214 THE COMPLETE SPORTSMAN 



taining a tin water-can, while all around was 

 ranged row upon row of empty jars of every 

 shape and size. 



" Are you going to have a bath ?" I innocently 

 inquired, observing these familiar preparations. 



" No, no," he answered testily; " that's what 

 we mix the compost in." 



" Mix the what ?" 



" Compost; the technical term for moss- or 

 cocoanut-fibre." 



" Oh, I see. But why not call it moss- or 

 cocoanut-fibre ?" 



George ignored my question. ''I've bor- 

 rowed mother's hip-bath," he said. " I don't 

 believe she wants it a bit — hips have gone 

 completely out of fashion this year — and it's 

 the very thing for the job. By the way," he 

 added, " I wish you'd be an angel " 



" No," I interrupted firmly, " I utterly de- 

 cline to be an angel. From earliest childhood 

 experience has taught me that the angelic func- 

 tion invariably entails running upstairs and 

 fetching something, and I'm much too old to 

 run anywhere." 



" Oh, very well," he sighed resignedly; " I 

 suppose I must go myself. Don't touch any- 

 thing till I come back," he enjoined as he left 

 the room. 



George was only away about three minutes 



