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It was on one of these jaunts that he met “Saw Logs,” who, after sizing him up for a day, promptly called him “Tommy,” an abbreviation instantly adopted by Maria–so fine, you know, to call a fellow “Tommy” who knew everybody and went everywhere. Sometimes she shrieked his name the length of the deck. On reaching London it was either the Carlton or the Ritz for Lambert. Tommy, however, made a faint demur. “Oh, hang the expense, Tommy, you are my guest for the summer,” broke out Lambert. What a prime minister you would have made, Tommy, in some kitchen cabinet!

There were no blossoms now out of his reach. Our little squirrel had gained the top! To dazzle the wife and daughter with the priceless value of his social position and then compel plain, honest, good-natured Samuel Lambert to pay his bills, and to pay those bills, too, in such a way, “by Heavens, sir, as not to wound a gentleman’s pride”: that, indeed, was an accomplishment. Had any other bushy tail of his acquaintance ever climbed so high or accomplished so much?

A movement on my right cut short my revery.

MacWhirter had lifted his big arms above his head, and was now twisting his broad back as if for a better fulcrum.

“Lonny–” he cried, bringing his body once more to a sitting posture.

“Yes, Mac.”

“In that humiliating and servile interview which you had a short time ago with your other genuflector, the landlord of the White Hart Inn, did you in any way gain the impression that every ounce of grub in his shebang was reserved for the special use of his highness, Count Kerosene, or the Earl of Asphalt, or the Duke of Sausage, or whatever the brute calls himself?–or do you think he can be induced to–“

“Yes, I think so.”

“Think what, you obtuse duffer?”

“That he can be induced.”

“Well, then, grab that easel and let us go to luncheon.”

II

I had not exaggerated the charm of the White Hart Inn–nobody can. I know most of the hostelries up and down this part of the river–the “Ferry” at Cookham, the “French Horn” across the Backwater, one or two at Henley, and a lovely old bungalow of a tavern at Maidenhead; but this garden of roses at Sonning has never lost its fascination for me.

For the White Hart is like none of these. It fronts the river, of course, as they all do–you can almost fish out of the coffee-room window of the “Ferry” at Cookham–and all the life of the boat-houses, the punts and wherries, with their sprawling cushions and bunches of jack-straw oars, and tows, back and forth, of empty boats, goes on just as it does at the other boat-landings, up and down the river; but, at the White Hart, it is the rose garden that counts! Planted in rows, like corn, their stalks straight as walking-sticks and as big; then a flare of smaller stalks like umbrella ribs, the circle covered with Prince Alberts, Cloth-of-Golds, Teas, Saffrons, Red Ramblers (the old gardener knows their names; I don’t). And the perfume that sweeps toward you and the way it sinks into your soul! Bury your face in a bunch of them, if you don’t believe it.

Then the bridge! That mouldy old mass of red brick that makes three clumsy jumps before it clears the river, the green rushes growing about its feet. And the glory of the bend below, with the fluff of elm, birch and maple melting into the morning haze!

Inside it is none the less delightful. Awnings, fronting the garden, stretch over the flowerbeds; vines twist their necks, the blossoms peeping curiously as you take your coffee.

There is a coffee-room, of course, with stags’ heads and hunting prints, and small tables with old-fashioned flowers in tiny vases, as well as a long serving board the width of the room, where everything that can be boiled, baked or stewed and then served cold awaits the hungry.