I hope I have conveyed the impression of a quiet and contented little community. I am sorry to have to add that there was one fly in the amber of their content. In the early spring of 1805 a mysterious figure had suddenly appeared in the Walk. A fisherman. A gaunt creature in an indescribable slouch hat: the sort of hat you do not pick up when you see it lying in the road; his bony form was encased in a long, nondescript linen garment, something like a carter’s smock-frock. This had once been white, but was now of every shade of brown. It had enormous pockets, bulging with unthinkable contents. One morning the Walk had awakened to find him sitting at the corner where Pomander Creek empties into the Thames; sitting on an old box, with a dreadful tin vessel full of worms at his side; sitting fishing. The Walk rubbed its eyes and wondered what the Admiral would say. When the Admiral came out of his house he stopped aghast. Then he gathered himself together for a mighty effort. But it came to nothing: you cannot argue with a man who refuses to argue back. The fisherman met Sir Peter’s first onslaught with a curt "Public thoroughfare," and then definitely closed his lips. Sir Peter raked him fore and aft, but never got another syllable out of him. Ultimately he retired baffled and beaten. Henceforward the fisherman came to his pitch every day, except Sunday. The Walk grew accustomed, if not reconciled, to his presence by slow degrees. They spoke of him among themselves as the Eyesore. *CHAPTER II* *HOW SIR PETER ANTROBUS AND JEROME BROOKE-HOSKYN, ESQUIRE, SMOKED A PIPE TOGETHER* [Illustration: Chapter II headpiece] On Saturday afternoon, May 25, 1805, Pomander Walk was looking its very best. The sun transfigured the old houses; the elm rustled in the river-breeze; the Admiral’s thrush was singing wistfully; Mrs. Poskett’s cat, Sempronius, was seated in her little front garden, wistfully listening to the bird’s song; the Eyesore was patiently wasting worms on discriminating fish who knew a hook when they saw it; and Sir Peter Antrobus and Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn, both in their shirt-sleeves, were finishing a game of quoits. "A ringer!" shouted Sir Peter, whose quoit had fallen fairly over the peg. Then he hurried up to the quoits, and, measuring their respective distances from it with a huge bandana handkerchief, added, "One maiden to you, Brooke! Game all! Peeled, by Jehoshaphat!" Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn flicked the dust off his waistcoat with magnificent indifference. The Admiral produced a boatswain’s whistle, and in answer to a blast, his man, Jim, appeared at an upstair window. "Ay, ay, Admiral!" "The usual. Here, under the elm. And look lively." "Ay, ay, sir!" Jim disappeared like a Jack-in-the-box. "We must play it off," said Sir Peter. But Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn protested. "Another time, Sir Peter. It is very warm, and my eye is out."