Mrs. P. arouses us—George, the sluggard—The “weather forecast” swindle—Our luggage—Depravity of the small boy—The people gather round us—We drive off in great style, and arrive at Waterloo—Innocence of South Western Officials concerning such worldly things as trains—We are afloat, afloat in an open boat.
It was Mrs. Poppets that woke me up next morning.
She said:
“Do you know that it’s nearly nine o’clock, sir?”
“Nine o’ what?” I cried, starting up.
“Nine o’clock,” she replied, through the keyhole. “I thought you was a-oversleeping yourselves.”
I woke Harris, and told him. He said:
“I thought you wanted to get up at six?”
“So I did,” I answered; “why didn’t you wake me?”
“How could I wake you, when you didn’t wake me?” he retorted. “Now we shan’t get on the water till after twelve. I wonder you take the trouble to get up at all.”
“Um,” I replied, “lucky for you that I do. If I hadn’t woke you, you’d have lain there for the whole fortnight.”
We snarled at one another in this strain for the next few minutes, when we were interrupted by a defiant snore from George. It reminded us, for