a better view of it.

And then the chair slipped, and George clutched wildly at the trout-case
to save himself, and down it came with a crash, George and the chair on
top of it.

"You haven't injured the fish, have you?" I cried in alarm, rushing up.

"I hope not," said George, rising cautiously and looking about.

But he had. That trout lay shattered into a thousand fragments--I say a
thousand, but they may have only been nine hundred. I did not count
them.

We thought it strange and unaccountable that a stuffed trout should break
up into little pieces like that.

And so it would have been strange and unaccountable, if it had been a
stuffed trout, but it was not.

That trout was plaster-of-Paris.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Locks.--George and I are
photographed.--Wallingford.--Dorchester.--Abingdon.--A family man.--A
good spot for drowning.--A difficult bit of water.--Demoralizing effect
of river air.

We left Streatley early the next morning, and pulled up to Culham, and
slept under the canvas, in the backwater there.

The river is not extraordinarily interesting between Streatley and
Wallingford. From Cleve you get a stretch of six and a half miles
without a lock. I believe this is the longest uninterrupted stretch
anywhere above Teddington, and the Oxford Club make use of it for their
trial eights.

But however satisfactory this absence of locks may be to rowing-men, it
is to be regretted by the mere pleasure-seeker.

For myself, I am fond of locks. They pleasantly break the monotony of
the pull. I like sitting in the boat and slowly rising out of the cool
depths up into new reaches and fresh views; or sinking down, as it were,
out of the world, and then waiting, while the gloomy gates creak, and the
narrow strip of day-light between them widens till the fair smiling river
lies full before you, and you push your little boat out from its brief
prison on to the welcoming waters once again.

They are picturesque little spots, these locks. The stout old
lock-keeper, or his cheerful-looking wife, or bright-eyed daughter, are
pleasant folk to have a passing chat with. {287} You meet other boats
there, and river gossip is exchanged. The Thames would not be the
fairyland it is without its flower-decked locks.

Talking of locks reminds me of an accident George and I very nearly had
one summer's morning at Hampton Court.

It was a glorious day, and the lock was crowded; and, as is a common
practic