t and piggish. Only Uncle
Jake appeared quite sound in wind and limb. He took off his boots and
stockings, walked into the ring with a fine imitation of the athlete's
swagger combined with a curious touch of shyness. "Go it Uncle Jake!"
they shouted. At the end of the first lap, he found himself so far
ahead that he threw his old round sailor's cap high into the air and
caught it, and he skipped along to the winning-post like a young lamb.
A great cheer was echoed from cliff to cliff. Uncle Jake has not spoken
his mind all his life for nothing. Seacombe does not unanimously like
him, but it has the sense to be rather proud of him. A veterans' race
is usually a sad spectacle, a grotesque _memento mori_: for Uncle
Jake 'twas a triumph.

The next great sight of the evening was to watch the fishermen from
other villages put off to their boats. Most of them were 'half seas
over,' some nearly helpless. They were thrown aboard from the punts and
had their sails hoisted for them; or, if they did it themselves, it was
with most comic jerks. The gods, who undoubtedly have a tenderness for
drunkards--why not?--must have looked after them, for no news has come
of any accident.

On returning in house, I met Tony with several of his men relatives. He
drew me aside. "Maybe I'll come home drunk to-night, but I promise 'ee
I won't disturb 'ee, an' if yu hears ort--well, yu'll know, won' 'ee?"

For some reason not easily to be fathomed his kindly warning made me
feel ashamed of my own sobriety, ashamed that I dared not 'go on the
bust' with him. I firmly believe that it does a man good to 'go on the
bust' occasionally. It develops fellow-feeling. And besides, who has
the right to cast a stone at a man for snatching a little jollity when
he may, be it alcoholic or not? The truth is, that Tony, who has no
craving for drink, was prepared to plunge into the fastest current of
the life around him, and to take his chance, whilst I, for niggardly,
self-preservative, prudential reasons, was not.

However, he came home quite sober.

27

[Sidenote: _THE SQUARE'S AWAKENING_]

Up-country, next week, I shall greatly miss my window overlooking
Alexandra Square. I have lived (rebelliously) in suburban streets where
only clattering feet, tradesmen's carts and pitiful street singers
broke the monotony; in a Paris _chambre a garcon, au sixieme_, where
the view was roofs and the noise of the city was attenuated to a
murmur; in country houses whi