them I should be terribly puzzled. You cannot, it seems to me, reduce friendship to a formula, or if you can you would knock all the fun out of it.
This was my second visit to the little inn at Sampford, and as soon as we got there I interviewed the landlord and engaged the sitting-room on the ground floor. Foster threw himself upon the sofa and picked up the book in which visitors write their names and exercise their humour, but I was so hot that I opened the French windows which led into the garden and went out. Only a fortnight before the garden had been full enough of flowers to satisfy me, but the wind and rain had beaten down everything, and in spite of the sun it looked bare and desolate. I walked across the lawn to a little arbour and surprised two belated beanfeasters and their ladies. In appearance the men were aggressive, their hats were on the backs of their heads, and enormous chrysanthemums bulged from their buttonholes, and must, I should think, have been a source of constant irritation to their chins. The girls giggled when they saw me, and one of the men asked me what I wanted. I told him I was looking for a comfortable place in which to sit down and that he seemed to have found it first. The girls giggled again and the men swore; it was a most commonplace scene. I went back across the lawn and was just going to join Foster, when I heard a tremendous burst of laughter from the room above ours. There was only one man who could laugh like that and he was Jack Ward. At that moment I wished him anywhere, for I guessed quite rightly that he had driven over to Sampford with some men whose luncheon would not consist of cold beef and beer.
I hoped to goodness we should get away without Foster seeing them, so I began to eat without saying anything, except that there was a most vile noise up-stairs. I need not have troubled to say so much since Foster was not deaf. I ate my luncheon hurriedly and gulped down my beer so fast that something went wrong with my wind-pipe. To the accompaniment of my coughs and peals of laughter from the room above, Fred sat eating with a comical expression of misery upon his face.
"Rowdy brutes," he said, and pointed to the ceiling.
I tried to answer, but failed.
"I should think they will get kicked out in a minute," he continued. "Aren't you going to have any pickles?"
"The room's so horribly stuffy," I managed to say; "I vote we go when you are ready."
"We've only just come. I haven't nearly done yet, and I am going to have a smoke when I've finished."
I resigned myself to the situation and seized the pickles; there was only one left and that was an onion. The noise increased and a huge piece of bread fell on the lawn in front of our window.
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