In my own case my inward watchman is, perhaps, somewhat out of practice. He does his best; but he is over – anxious; he worries himself, and loses count. I say to him, maybe, "Five – thirty, please;" and he wakes me with a start at half – past two. I look at my watch. He suggests that, perhaps, I forgot to wind it up. I put it to my ear; it is still going. He thinks, maybe, something has happened to it; he is confident himself it is half – past five, if not a little later. To satisfy him, I put on a pair of slippers and go downstairs to inspect the dining – room clock. What happens to a man when he wanders about the house in the middle of the night, clad in a dressing – gown and a pair of slippers, there is no need to recount; most men know by experience. Everything – especially everything with a sharp corner – takes a cowardly delight in hitting him. When you are wearing a pair of stout boots, things get out of your way; when you venture among furniture in woolwork slippers and no socks, it comes at you and kicks you. I return to bed bad tempered, and refusing to listen to his further absurd suggestion that all the clocks in the house have entered into a conspiracy against me, take half an hour to get to sleep again. From four to five he wakes me every ten minutes. I wish I had never said a word to him about the thing. At five o’clock he goes to sleep himself, worn out, and leaves it to the girl, who does it half an hour later than usual.
On this particular Wednesday he worried me to such an extent, that I got up at five simply to be rid of him. I did not know what to do with myself. Our train did not leave till eight; all our luggage had been packed and sent on the night before, together with the bicycles, to Fenchurch Street Station. I went into my study; I thought I would put in an hour’s writing. The early morning, before one has breakfasted, is not, I take it, a good season for literary effort. I wrote three paragraphs of a story, and then read them over to myself. Some unkind things have been said about my work; but nothing has yet been written which would have done justice to those three paragraphs. I threw them into the waste – paper basket, and sat trying to remember what, if any, charitable institutions provided pensions for decayed authors.
To escape from this train of reflection, I put a golf – ball in my pocket, and selecting a driver, strolled out into the paddock. A couple of sheep were browsing there, and they followed and took a keen interest in my practice. The one was a kindly, sympathetic old party. I do not think she understood the game; I think it was my doing this innocent thing so early in the morning that appealed to her. At every stroke I made she bleated:
"Go – o – o – d, go – o – o – d ind – e – e – d!"
She seemed as pleased as if she had done it herself.
As for the other one, she was a cantankerous, disagreeable old thing, as discouraging to me as her friend was helpful.
"Ba – a – ad, da – a – a – m ba – a – a – d!" was her comment on almost every stroke. As a matter of fact, some were really excellent strokes; but she did it just to be contradictory, and for the sake of irritating. I could see that.
By a most regrettable accident, one of my swiftest balls struck the good sheep on the nose. And at that the bad sheep laughed – laughed distinctly and undoubtedly, a husky, vulgar laugh; and, while her friend stood glued to the ground, too astonished to move, she changed her note for the first time and bleated:
