And, sure enough, about the hour of noon on the following day, Jimson

might have been observed ascending the riverside road that goes from

Padwick to Great Haverham, carrying in one hand a basket of provisions,

and under the other arm a leather case containing (it is to be

conjectured) the score of Orange Pekoe. It was October weather; the

stone-grey sky was full of larks, the leaden mirror of the Thames

brightened with autumnal foliage, and the fallen leaves of the chestnuts

chirped under the composer's footing. There is no time of the year

in England more courageous; and Jimson, though he was not without his

troubles, whistled as he went.

A little above Padwick the river lies very solitary. On the opposite

shore the trees of a private park enclose the view, the chimneys of the

mansion just pricking forth above their clusters; on the near side the

path is bordered by willows. Close among these lay the houseboat, a

thing so soiled by the tears of the overhanging willows, so grown upon

with parasites, so decayed, so battered, so neglected, such a haunt of

rats, so advertised a storehouse of rheumatic agonies, that the heart

of an intending occupant might well recoil. A plank, by way of flying

drawbridge, joined it to the shore. And it was a dreary moment for

Jimson when he pulled this after him and found himself alone on this

unwholesome fortress. He could hear the rats scuttle and flop in the

abhorred interior; the key cried among the wards like a thing in pain;

the sitting-room was deep in dust, and smelt strong of bilge-water. It

could not be called a cheerful spot, even for a composer absorbed in

beloved toil; how much less for a young gentleman haunted by alarms and

177

The Wrong Box