In the lull, the chief official from the water company sought an interview with me, when he broke the news that never, in all his life, had he seen a more antiquated stop-cock (which, by the way, had been made in Germany) than the one I had had placed (apparently out of sheer perversity or malice) in the front of my premises. It seems that there was no key in the whole of London that would turn that stop-cock; and when finally it had turned it, that key could not be got out again. However, or whenever, I had managed to evade the Eye of Authority so far as to drop that stop-cock into the ground, he could not think; but, at any rate, out it would have to come again. Here I managed to get in a word sideways, and told him that the much maligned article had been placed there by another squad of men from the same water company (after a similar harangue), and then duly “passed” by an inspector only two years ago. Two years ago! he exclaimed, why, _that_ inspector had been called up in the spring, and he was no loss to the company! Not that he (the speaker) was one to say anything against another man’s work, but if I would just come out and examine it for myself (it was raining torrents, and the stop-cock was an island in a watery waste) I would see that the whole affair was scandalous. He was the last to utter an ill-word about any man, more especially behind his back, but conscientiousness compelled him to state that the late inspector was about as fit to be in the employ of a water company as—“as _you_ are, ma’am.” Evidently he could think of no more hopelessly incapable specimen of humanity. Then it transpired that the real object of his call on me was to ask whether I authorised him to put in a new stop-cock (more special fees, of course). As I didn’t seem to be left much choice in the matter, and I wasn’t sure whether, if I left it in, after being told to take it out, the Defence of the Realm couldn’t come and have me shot at dawn, I told him he had my full permission to put in twenty new stop-cocks if he liked; he was at liberty to place them as a trimming outside my garden wall, or as an edging at the kerb, or in a fancy zigzag design around the drive—anything—everything—whatsoever and howsoever he pleased, so long as it enabled him, conscientiously, _to turn on my water again_. (The lady next door had already said that while she was delighted to give me the water, and would even throw in all the jugs and cans she possessed, she really couldn’t spare her coachman (aged 73) for more than half-an-hour at each delivery, as he was the one ewe-lamb left them, since war claimed the rest, and would I kindly see that my kitchen limited their conversation to that extent, and returned him, carriage forward, within that time.)