Jellaby (who seemed to think he was irresistible) volunteered to go to the farmer and get permission to camp in the field, and I was pleased to see that he made so doubtful an impression that the man came back with him before granting anything, to find out whether the party belonging to this odd emissary were respectable. I dare say he would have decided that we were not had he only seen the others, for the gentlemen were in their shirt sleeves again; but when he saw me, well and completely dressed, he had no further hesitations. Readily he let us use the field, recommending a certain lower portion of it on account of the nearness of the water, and then he prepared to go back and, as he said, finish his dinner. But we, who wanted dinner too, could not be content with nothing more filling than a field, and began almost with one voice to talk to him of poultry. He said he had none. Of eggs. He said he had none. Of (anxiously) butter. He said he had none. And he scratched his head and looked unintelligent for a space, and then repeating that about finishing his dinner turned away. I went with him. “Take the caravans into the field and I will forage,” I called back, waving my hand; for the idea of accompanying a man who was going to finish his dinner exhilarated me into further masterfulness. My rapid calculation was, as I kept step with him, he looking at me sideways, that though it was very likely true he had not enough for ten it was equally probable that he had plenty for one. Besides, he might be glad to let an interesting stranger share the finishing of his no doubt lonely meal. In the short transit from the lane to his back door (the front door was choked with grass and weeds) I chatted agreeably and fluently about the butter and eggs we desired to buy, adopting the “Come, come, my dear fellow” tone, perhaps better described as the man to man form of appeal. “Foreign?” said he, after I had thus flowed on, pausing on his doorstep as though intending to part from me at that point. “Yes, and proud of it,” said I, lifting my hat to my distant Fatherland. “Ah,” said he. “No accountin’ for tastes.” This was disappointing after I had thought we were getting on. Also it was characteristically British. I would at once have resented it if with the opening of the door the unfinished dinner had not, in the form of a most appetizing odour, issued forth to within reach of my nostrils. To sit in a room with shut windows at a table and dine, without preliminary labours, on food that did not get cold between the plate and one’s mouth, seemed to me at that moment a lot so blessed that tears almost came into my eyes. “Do you never have--guests?” I asked, faltering but hurried, for he was about to shut the door with me still on the wrong side of it. He stared. Red-faced and over stout his very personal safety demanded that he should not by himself finish that dinner. “Guests?” he repeated stupidly. “No, I don’t have no guests.”