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           ItwaseasyenoughtoconnectthosefolkwiththeknifethatpinnedScuddertothefloor,andwithfelldesignsontheworld’speace.Buthereweretwoguilelesscitizenstakingtheirinnocuousexercise,andsoonabouttogoindoorstoahumdrumdinner,wheretheywouldtalkofmarketpricesandthelastcricketscoresandthegossipoftheirnativeSurbiton.Ihadbeenmakinganettocatchvulturesandfalcons,andloandbehold!twoplumpthrusheshadblunderedintoit.

           Presentlyathirdfigurearrived,ayoungmanonabicycle,withabagofgolf-clubsslungonhisback.Hestrolledroundtothetennislawnandwaswelcomedriotouslybytheplayers.Evidentlytheywerechaffinghim,andtheirchaffsoundedhorriblyEnglish.Thentheplumpman,moppinghisbrowwithasilkhandkerchief,announcedthathemusthaveatub.Iheardhisverywords—“I’vegotintoaproperlather,”hesaid.“Thiswillbringdownmyweightandmyhandicap,Bob.I’lltakeyouontomorrowandgiveyouastrokeahole.”Youcouldn’tfindanythingmuchmoreEnglishthanthat.

           Theyallwentintothehouse,andleftmefeelingapreciousidiot.Ihadbeenbarkingupthewrongtreethistime.Thesemenmightbeacting;butiftheywere,wherewastheiraudience?Theydidn’tknowIwassittingthirtyyardsoffinarhododendron.Itwassimplyimpossibletobelievethatthesethreeheartyfellowswereanythingbutwhattheyseemed—threeordinary,game-playing,suburbanEnglishmen,wearisome,ifyoulike,butsordidlyinnocent.