P. Panhard through the rural lanes of
Britain. Indeed, I was so shocked at my own appearance when I
looked at myself in the glass (such a wiggly old glass that showed
one in streaks like bacon) that I went down to the draper's and
tried to buy a new set out. But as they had nothing except cheap
tripper suits for pigmies (I stood six feet in my stockings and
had played full back at college) and fishermen's clothes of an
ancient Dutch design, I forebore to waste my good dollars in
making a guy of myself, and decided to remain as I was.
Then, as I was sitting in the bar and asking the potman the best
way to get to Castle Fyles, it suddenly came over me that it was
the Fourth of July, and that, recreant as I was, I had come near
forgetting the event altogether. I started off again down the main
street to discover some means of raising a noise, and after a good
deal of searching I managed to procure several handfuls of strange
whitey fire-crackers the size of cigars and a peculiar red package
that the shopkeeper called a "Haetna Volcano." He said that for
four and eightpence one couldn't find its match in Lunnon itself,
and obligingly took off twopence when I pointed out Vesuvius
hadn't a fuse. With the crackers in my pocket and the volcano
under my arm I set forth in the pleasant summer morning to walk to
Castle Fyles, having an idea to rest by the way and celebrate the
Fourth in the very heart of the hereditary enemy.
The road, as is so often the case in England, ran between high
stone walls and restrained the wayfarer from straying into the
gentlemen's parks on either hand.
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