A CUB-HUNTING INVITATION 333 



Pownceby's " little place " is labourer's four-roomed 

 cottage, and singularly dirty at that. Met by 

 aggressive elderly female, even dirtier than cottage. 

 Pownceby silently hands her mud-stained sausages 

 and two chops, wrapped in newspaper. I don't 

 exactly dine, says Pownceby to me, " I have supper, 

 you know ; same thing, only different name. Being 

 a bachelor, I make no fuss with anyone." Rather 

 wish he would. " Come upstairs and put yourself 

 straight. Mind that loose board. JSTot ' up to 

 weight,' as we say, eh ? " Avoid loose plank and 

 stumble upstairs into sloping-roofed attic. Painted 

 wooden bedstead ; ditto washstand. Smells musty. 

 Paper peeling off walls, and ceiling coming down in 

 patches. I shudder, and ask when I may expect 

 portmanteau. " Oh, in about an hour, I daresay. 

 Got all you want % Sure that you're quite comfort- 

 able ? ' Mem. This man evidently an unconscious 

 humorist. Have to borrow (greatly against my 

 will) some dry clothes of Powxceby's in absence of 

 my own. Wash, and descend ricketty stairs to 

 sitting room. Fire smokes. " Like me," says 

 Powxceby, facetiously, and laughs uproariously. 

 Must have very keen sense of humour, this man. 

 Aggressive female enters with two chops (fried) 

 and ditto sausages ; small jug of table beer and 

 tinned loaf complete picture. " Let's fall to," says 



