o, after sizing
him up for a day, promptly called him "Tommy," an abbreviation instantly
adopted by Maria--so fine, you know, to call a fellow "Tommy" who knew
everybody and went everywhere. Sometimes she shrieked his name the
length of the deck. On reaching London it was either the Carlton or
the Ritz for Lambert. Tommy, however, made a faint demur. "Oh, hang the
expense, Tommy, you are my guest for the summer," broke out Lambert.
What a prime minister you would have made, Tommy, in some kitchen
cabinet!

There were no blossoms now out of his reach. Our little squirrel had
gained the top! To dazzle the wife and daughter with the priceless
value of his social position and then compel plain, honest, good-natured
Samuel Lambert to pay his bills, and to pay those bills, too, in such
a way, "by Heavens, sir, as not to wound a gentleman's pride":
that, indeed, was an accomplishment. Had any other bushy tail of his
acquaintance ever climbed so high or accomplished so much?

A movement on my right cut short my revery.

MacWhirter had lifted his big arms above his head, and was now twisting
his broad back as if for a better fulcrum.

"Lonny--" he cried, bringing his body once more to a sitting posture.

"Yes, Mac."

"In that humiliating and servile interview which you had a short time
ago with your other genuflector, the landlord of the White Hart Inn,
did you in any way gain the impression that every ounce of grub in
his shebang was reserved for the special use of his highness, Count
Kerosene, or the Earl of Asphalt, or the Duke of Sausage, or whatever
the brute calls himself?--or do you think he can be induced to--"

"Yes, I think so."

"Think what, you obtuse duffer?"

"That he can be induced."

"Well, then, grab that easel and let us go to luncheon."

II

I had not exaggerated the charm of the White Hart Inn--nobody can. I
know most of the hostelries up and down this part of the river--the
"Ferry" at Cookham, the "French Horn" across the Backwater, one or two
at Henley, and a lovely old bungalow of a tavern at Maidenhead; but this
garden of roses at Sonning has never lost its fascination for me.

For the White Hart is like none of these. It fronts the river, of
course, as they all do--you can almost fish out of the coffee-room
window of the "Ferry" at Cookham--and all the life of the boat-houses,
the punts and wherries, with their sprawling cushions and bunches of
jack-straw oars, and tows, back and f