Mrs. Henshaw L2 0 0 Panama 6 11 Nightshirt 3 11 Coat 15 0 Public House 10 Shave and Newspaper 7 Road Map 1 0 ---------- L3 8 3 He went over these accounts and checked them in his head. Then he put the money back in his pocket and started on his way across the fields. Despite all his worries this English country interested him, it also annoyed him. Fields, the size of pocket handkerchiefs, divided one from the other by monstrous hedges and deep ditches. To cross this country in a straight line one would want to be a deer or a bounding kangaroo. Gates, always at corners and always diagonal to his path, gave him access from one field to the other. Trees there were none. The English tree has an antipathy to the sea, and keeps away from it, but the hedge has no sensitiveness of this sort. These hedges seemed to love the sea, to judge by their size. He was just in the act of clambering over one of the innumerable gates when a voice hailed him. He looked back. A young man in leggings, who had evidently been following him unperceived, raised a hand. Jones finished his business with the gate, and then, with it between him and the stranger, waited. He was well dressed in a rough way, evidently a superior sort of farmer, and physically a person to be reckoned with. He was also an exceedingly cantankerous looking individual. "Do you know that you are trespassing?" asked he, when they were within speaking distance. "No," said Jones. "Well, you are. I must ask you for your name and address, please." "What on earth for--what harm am I doing your old fields?" Jones had forgotten his position, everything, before the outrage on common sense. "You are trespassing, that's all. I must ask you for your name and address." Now to Jones came the recollection of something he had read somewhere. A statement, that in England there was no law of trespass in the country places, and that a person might go anywhere to pick mushrooms or wild flowers, and no landlord could interfere so long as no damage was done. "Don't you know the law?" asked Jones. He recited the law accordingly, to the Unknown. The other listened politely. "I ask you for your name and address," said he. "Our lawyers will settle the other matter." Then anger came to Jones. "I am the Earl of Rochester," said he, "and my address is Carlton House Terrace, London. I have no cards on me." Then the queerest sensation came to Jones, for he saw that the other had recognised him. Rochester was evidently as well known to the ordinary Englishman, by picture and repute, as Lloyd George. "I beg your pardon," said the other, "but the fact is that my land is over-run with people from Sandbourne--sorry." "Oh, don't mention it," replied the Earl of Rochester. "I sha'n't do any damage. Good day." They parted and he pursued his way.