only gave him fits; but a person of mere average
intellect it usually sent mad.

There is, it must be confessed, something very sad about the early
efforts of an amateur in bagpipes. I have felt that myself when
listening to my young friend. They appear to be a trying instrument to
perform upon. You have to get enough breath for the whole tune before
you start--at least, so I gathered from watching Jefferson.

He would begin magnificently with a wild, full, come-to-the-battle sort
of a note, that quite roused you. But he would get more and more piano
as he went on, and the last verse generally collapsed in the middle with
a splutter and a hiss.

You want to be in good health to play the bagpipes.

Young Jefferson only learnt to play one tune on those bagpipes; but I
never heard any complaints about the insufficiency of his
repertoire--none whatever. This tune was "The Campbells are Coming,
Hooray--Hooray!" so he said, though his father always held that it was
"The Blue Bells of Scotland." Nobody seemed quite sure what it was
exactly, but they all agreed that it sounded Scotch.

Strangers were allowed three guesses, and most of them guessed a
different tune each time.

Harris was disagreeable after supper,--I think it must have been the stew
that had upset him: he is not used to high living,--so George and I left
him in the boat, and settled to go for a mouch round Henley. He said he
should have a glass of whisky and a pipe, and fix things up for the
night. We were to shout when we returned, and he would row over from the
island and fetch us.

"Don't go to sleep, old man," we said as we started.

"Not much fear of that while this stew's on," he grunted, as he pulled
back to the island.

Henley was getting ready for the regatta, and was full of bustle. We met
a goodish number of men we knew about the town, and in their pleasant
company the time slipped by somewhat quickly; so that it was nearly
eleven o'clock before we set off on our four-mile walk home--as we had
learned to call our little craft by this time.

It was a dismal night, coldish, with a thin rain falling; and as we
trudged through the dark, silent fields, talking low to each other, and
wondering if we were going right or not, we thought of the cosy boat,
with the bright light streaming through the tight-drawn canvas; of Harris
and Montmorency, and the whisky, and wished that we were there.

We conjured up the picture of ourselves inside,