"Well, I never! So you're going to see a crab!" says the old gentleman, doing his best with it. Richard Henry nods two or three times. "Going to see a crab," he says firmly. Luckily Jenny comes up and rescues him, otherwise they would still be at it. "Come along, darling, and see the crab," she says, picking up his hand; and Richard Henry looks triumphantly at the old gentleman. There you are. Perhaps he will believe a fellow another time. Jenny has evidently made an arrangement with a particular crab for this afternoon. It is to be hoped that the appointment will be kept, for she has hurried Richard Henry past all sorts of wonderful things which he wanted to stop with for a little. But the thought of this lovely crab, which Jenny thinks so much of, forbids protest. Quite right not to keep it waiting. What will it be like? Will it be bigger than the sea? We have reached the rendezvous. We see now that we need not have been in such a hurry. "There!" says Jenny excitedly. "Isn't he a darling little crab? He's asleep." (That's why we need not have hurried.) Richard Henry says nothing. He can't think of the words for what he is feeling. What he wants to say is that Jenny has let him down again. They passed a lot of these funny little things on their way here, but Jenny wouldn't stop because she was going to show him a Crab, a great, big, enormous darling little Crab--which might have been anything--and now it's only just this. No wonder the old gentleman didn't believe him. Swindled--that's the word he wants. However, he can't think of it for the moment, so he tries something else. "Darling little crab," he says. They leave the dead crab there and hurry back. "What shall I show you _now_?" says Jenny. GOLDEN MEMORIES When Memory with its scorn of ages, Its predilection for the past, Turns back about a billion pages And lands us by the Cam at last; Is it the thought of "Granta" (once our daughter), The Freshers' Match, the Second in our Mays That makes our mouth, our very soul to water? Ah no! Ah no! It is the Salmon Mayonnaise! The work we did was rarely reckoned Worthy a tutor's kindly word-- (For when I said we got a Second I really meant we got a Third)-- The games we played were often tinged with bitter, Amidst the damns no faintest hint of praise Greeted us when we missed the authentic "sitter"-- But thou wert always kind, O Salmon Mayonnaise! Even our nights with "Granta," even The style that, week by blessed week, Mixed Calverley and J.K. Stephen With much that was (I hold) unique, Even our parodies of the Rubáiyát Were disappointing--yes, in certain ways: What genius loves (I mean) the people shy at-- Yet no one ever shied at Salmon Mayonnaise!