"I'll take my oath I put it down on that chair," said George, staring at the empty seat. "I saw you do it myself, not a minute ago," said Harris. Then they started round the room again looking for it; and then they met again in the center, and stared at one another. "Most extraordinary thing I ever heard of," said George. "So mysterious!" said Harris. Then George got around at the back of Harris and saw it. "Why, here it is all the time," he exclaimed indignantly. "Where?" cried Harris, spinning round. "Stand still, can't you!" roared George, flying after him. And they got it off, and packed it in the teapot. Montmorency was in it all, of course. Montmorency's ambition in life is to get in the way and be sworn at. If he can squirm in anywhere where he particularly is not wanted, and be a perfect nuisance, and make people mad, and have things thrown at his head, then he feels his day has not been wasted. [Illustration: "AIN'T YOU GOING TO PUT THE BOOTS IN?"] He came and sat down on things, just when they were wanted to be packed; and he labored under the fixed belief that, whenever Harris or George reached out a hand for anything, it was his cold, damp nose that they wanted. He put his leg into the jam, and he worried the teaspoons, and he pretended that the lemons were rats, and got into the hamper and killed three of them before Harris could land him with the frying-pan. Harris said I encouraged him. I didn't encourage him. A dog like that doesn't want any encouragement. It's the natural, original sin that is born in him that makes him do things like that. The packing was done at 12:50; and Harris sat on the big hamper, and said he hoped nothing would be found broken. George said that if anything was broken it _was_ broken, which reflection seemed to comfort him. He also said he was ready for bed. We were all ready for bed. [Illustration] ON COMIC SONGS _By_ JEROME K. JEROME Harris has a fixed idea that he _can_ sing a comic song; the fixed idea, on the contrary, among those of Harris's friends who have heard him try, is that he _can't_, and never will be able to, and that he ought not to be allowed to try. When Harris is at a party and is asked to sing, he replies: "Well, I can only sing a _comic_ song, you know"; and he says it in a tone that implies that his singing of _that_, however, is a thing that you ought to hear once, and then die. "Oh, that _is_ nice," says the hostess. "Do sing one, Mr. Harris," and Harris gets up and makes for the piano, with the beaming cheeriness of a generous-minded man who is just about to give somebody something. "Now, silence, please, everybody," says the hostess, turning round; "Mr. Harris is going to sing a comic song!" "Oh, how jolly!" they murmur; and they hurry in from the conservatory, and come up from the stairs, and go and fetch each other from all over the house, and crowd into the drawing-room, and sit round, all smirking in anticipation. Then Harris begins.