cloud--and a sense of racing, headlong life joyously tremulous over
the earth.

The boys had met at Paddington Station, Sam Sartin by no means abashed
at his own appearance in an old suit of Christopher's, and wearing, in
deference to his friend's outspoken wishes, a decorous dark-blue tie
and unobtrusive shirt. He looked what he was--a good, solid,
respectable working lad out for a holiday. Excitement, if he felt it,
was well suppressed, surprise at the new world of luxury--they
travelled down first--was equally carefully concealed. The code of
manners in which he was reared was stringent in this particular.

Christopher, on the contrary, was in high spirits. Sam had watched him
come down the platform, out of the corner of his eye, with a queer
sense of proud possession. He would have liked to proclaim to the
world that the young master there, who walked like a prince, was his
own particular pal. Yet he pretended not to see him till Christopher
clapped him on the shoulder with a warm greeting.

"I've got the tickets. Come on," said the giver of the treat. "I say,
what a day, Sammie--if it's good in London what will it be in the
country?"

"Cold, I shouldn't wonder. What's the matter with London?" said the
cockney sarcastically.

"Old Bricks and Mortar," retorted Christopher gaily. "You'll know
what's the matter with it when you come back. It's too jolly small."

"Big enough for me. But the country's well enough to play in. I say,
Mr. Christopher, I've been thinking, we may not find any boats. It's
early."

"Oh, I've seen to that," said Christopher with the faintest suspicion
of lordliness in his voice. "I wrote to the man I know at Maidenhead
to have a boat ready--a good one."

Sam grinned. "My, what a head-piece we've got, to be sure."

The other flushed a little. "It was really Caesar who suggested it," he
owned.

Sam had never been down that line before, so Christopher pointed out
the matters of interest. They found their boat ready at Maidenhead,
bestowed their coats in the bow and settled themselves. Christopher
insisted on Sam's rowing stroke. Sam thought politeness obliged him to
refuse, but he ultimately gave in. He retrieved the little error in
manners by handling his oar in a masterly way. "Stroke shaping well,"
Christopher heard the boatman say as they went off.

The wind on the river was cold enough and, in spite of the bright sun,
cut through them. But half an hour's steady pulling brought