"A relic of the monks?" asks Bunker.
"It's a champagne cork," I am forced to reply. "The truth is, Netley Abbey is a show, like Niagara Falls and Bunker Hill Monument. Of course crowds of tourists come here, and of course they pop champagne and ginger beer, and cut their confounded initials in the venerable stones."
"Yes," says Bunker, "I saw 'W.S.' cut in the wall at the top of the turret stairs. Saves you the trouble, you know."
"I don't do that sort of thing, thank you."
Nevertheless, it was curious to see some nobody's name cut at full length in the stone, with the date underneath—1770.
When we return to the hotel the night porter reports that he has not found my umbrella. So I must go off without it. Our train leaves at ten minutes past five this afternoon, and we shall be in London early in the evening. It is now four o'clock: we have ordered dinner for this hour, and so we sit down to our soup.
"Please give us our dinner without any delay now," I say to the pompous head-waiter, "for we must take the train at ten minutes past five."
The man bows stiffly and retires. We finish the soup, and wait. When we get tired of waiting we call the head-waiter to us: "Are you hastening our dinner?"
"Fish directly, sir," he answers, and walks solemnly away. We begin to grow fidgety. Fifteen minutes since the soup, and no fish yet. Bunker swears he'll blow the head-waiter up in another minute. Just as he is quite ready for this explosion the fish arrives. All hail! I lay it open.
"Why, it's not done!" I cry in consternation. "There, there! Take it away, and bring the meat."