OLD Runridge’s misadventure in wedlock has proved a trouble to more people than one in Windlecombe. In former years, though boating parties from the town were continually to be seen on the river, when the August holiday season began, they seldom pulled up at our ferry stairs. From the waterside the village had a somewhat inhospitable look, while a mile farther on there were the North Woods, Stavisham’s traditional picnicking ground, where, at the gamekeeper’s cottage, all were sure of a welcome. Such wandering holiday-makers as found their way into Windlecombe came usually by road, and were of the tranquil, undemonstrative breed, like pedestrians all the world over. There would seem to be something about sitting long hours in a rowing-boat which is detrimental, even debasing, to a certain common variety of human nature. The tendency to run and shout and skylark on reaching dry ground again appears to be irresistible to this numerous class. And it is at Mrs. Runridge’s door that we must lay the blame of submitting Windlecombe to a pestilent innovation. ‘Look ye!’ said the old ferryman from his seat in the boat, waving a scornful hand towards his garden, as I chanced along the river bank one fine Saturday afternoon. ‘’Twur me as painted un, an’ me as putt un up, jest fer peace’s sake; but I’d ha’ taken an’ chucked un in th’ river if I’d only ha’ knowed what sort o’ peace ’ud come on ’t!’ A great white board reared itself on ungainly legs above the elder-hedge of the garden, and on it, in huge irregular characters, appeared the single word, ‘TEAS.’ By the side of the ferry-punt half a dozen town rowing-boats lay moored. And from the green depths of the garden there arose a confusion of voices, shrill laughter, and an incessant clatter of crockery. I had hardly realised what it all meant, when Mrs. Runridge showed a vast white apron and a hot perspiring face in the gateway. She bore down upon us with upraised hand, as though she intended bodily harm to one or both. ‘Here, Joe!’ cried she, giving the old ferryman a coin. ‘Change fer half a suvverrin, an’ shaarp ’s th’ wured! Try th’ Thatchers, or Mist. Weaverly, or belike— Doan’t sit starin’ there, looney! Dear, oh Lor! was there ever sech a man! An’ us all run purty nigh off our legses, we be!’ ‘Th’ seventh time,’ gasped Runridge, as we hurried together up the steep street, ‘or like as not th’ eighth—I dunno! An’ ut bean’t as though ’a warnted money. Money?—th’ bed bean’t fit fer Christian folk to sleep on, wi’ th’ lumps in ’t! An’ to-morrer ull be wuss, if ’tis fine. Lor’ send a hearthquake, or Noah’s flood, or summat!’