IN DEVONSHIRE 263 



That sort of thing is an almost sure guide where 

 much labour is employed and the game is near 

 to a town. Altogether, I was greatly interested 

 in my inspection, although, as I say, I never 

 touch milk and do not as a rule go for cow beef. 

 Still, I would always be content to take my 

 chance with any of the red-coated acquaintances 

 I made on Wednesday. They wouldn't make 

 the sort of cow beef you have to put up with so 

 often in Lancashire, and I may add that you do 

 get very excellent eating in Devonshire out of 

 the bovine sex, where the producers have one 

 fault — viz., killing too young. 



At Plymouth South- Western Station, as ever 

 was, I got crowned with a — to me — really novel 



epithet. The other man called me '^ a d d 



T.G." He wanted to secure the corner seat I 

 picked out for the journey from Plymouth to 

 Waterloo, and made himself very nasty because I 

 wouldn't shift. As matters shaped themselves, 

 we had what the late Mr Bobby Ryan used to 

 call a '* heated alteration." The other man's point 

 was that he always had that seat when he joined 

 the train at Exeter. My contention was on the 

 ** J'y suis, j'y reste " lines ; and, being in posses- 

 sion, I, so to speak, prevailed. I wanted to be in 

 a corner facing the line of march, to enjoy the 

 scenery as much as I might. Circumstances over 

 which I have no control — meaning the Editor — 

 required me to go by a fast train, which I would 

 never do if I were my own master and in no hurry 

 on my own account. Because, you see, I am all 

 for marking and enjoying the views, and while 

 one is being whisked along at x express-miles per 

 hour one misses fair chance of taking in the more 

 or less beautiful features of the land. 



