Then he opened me and looked down me, and clutched hold of my wrist, and then hit me over the chest when I wasn't expecting it--a cowardly thing to do, I call it--and immediately afterward butted me with the side of his head. After that, he sat down and wrote out a prescription, and folded it up and gave it to me, and I put it in my pocket and went out. I did not open it. I took it to the nearest chemist's, and handed it in. The man read it, and then handed it back. He said he didn't keep it. I said: "You are a chemist?" "I am a chemist. If I were a co-operative store and family hotel combined, I might be able to oblige you. Being only a chemist hampers me." I read the prescription. It ran: "1 lb. beefsteak, with 1 pt. bitter beer every six hours. 1 ten-mile walk every morning. 1 bed at 11 sharp every night. And don't stuff up your head with things you don't understand." I followed the directions, with the happy result--speaking for myself--that my life was preserved, and is still going on. * * * * * George said: "Let's go up the river." He said we should have fresh air, exercise and quiet; the constant change of scene would occupy our minds (including what there was of Harris's); and the hard work would give us an appetite, and make us sleep well. Harris said he didn't think George ought to do anything that would have a tendency to make him sleepier than he always was, as it might be dangerous. He said he didn't very well understand how George was going to sleep any more than he did now, seeing that there were only twenty-four hours in each day, summer and winter, alike; but thought that if he _did_ sleep any more, he might just as well be dead, and so save his board and lodging. Harris said, however, that the river would suit him to a "T." It suited me to a "T," too, and Harris and I both said it was a good idea of George's; and we said in a tone that seemed to imply somehow that we were surprised that George should have come out so sensible. The only one who was not struck with the suggestion was Montmorency. He never did care for the river, did Montmorency. "It's all very well for you fellows," he says; "you like it, but _I_ don't. There's nothing for me to do. Scenery is not in my line, and I don't smoke. If I see a rat, you won't stop; and if I go to sleep, you get fooling about with the boat, and slop me overboard. If you ask me, I call the whole thing bally foolishness." We were three to one, however, and the motion was carried. * * * * *