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Being a man of naturally retiring and modest disposition, Mr Watkins determined to make this visit incog., and after due consideration of the conditions of his enterprise, he selected the rôle of a landscape artist and the unassuming surname of Smith. He preceded his assistant, who, it was decided, should join him only on the last afternoon of his stay at Hammerpond.
The party was now moving toward the house. "You walk rather lame. May I offer you my arm?" And instead of entering Hammerpond House by the dressing-room window, Mr. Watkins entered it slightly intoxicated, and inclined now to cheerfulness again on the arm of a real live peer, and by the front door. "This," thought Mr. Watkins, "is burgling in style!"
Everyone suddenly awoke to the fact that it was a shame to keep him talking after his affray, so he retired early to his room, the little red room next to Lord Aveling's suite. The dawn found a deserted easel bearing a canvas with a green inscription, in the Hammerpond Park, and it found Hammerpond House in commotion.
"No, never had a head for figures," said Mr Watkins, "my miss Mrs Smith, I mean, does all that." "She paints too!" said Porson. "That's rather jolly." "Very," said Mr Watkins, though he really did not think so, and, feeling the conversation was drifting a little beyond his grasp, added, "I came down here to paint Hammerpond House by moonlight." "Really!" said Porson. "That's rather a novel idea."
On the whole it seems to be most justly ranked as sport, a sport for which no rules are at present formulated, and of which the prizes are distributed in an extremely informal manner. It was this informality of burglary that led to the regrettable extinction of two promising beginners at Hammerpond Park.
Smith, I mean, does all that." "She paints too!" said Porson. "That's rather jolly." "Very," said Mr. Watkins, though he really did not think so, and, feeling the conversation was drifting a little beyond his grasp, added: "I came down here to paint Hammerpond House by moonlight." "Really!" said Porson. "That's rather a novel idea." "Yes," said Mr.
The party was now moving towards the house. "You walk rather lame. May I offer you my arm?" And instead of entering Hammerpond House by the dressing-room window, Mr Watkins entered it slightly intoxicated, and inclined now to cheerfulness again on the arm of a real live peer, and by the front door. "This," thought Mr Watkins, "is burgling in style!"
Now the village of Hammerpond is perhaps one of the prettiest little corners in Sussex; many thatched houses still survive, the flint-built church with its tall spire nestling under the down is one of the finest and least restored in the county, and the beech-woods and bracken jungles through which the road runs to the great house are singularly rich in what the vulgar artist and photographer call "bits."
Towards sunset next day Mr Watkins, virgin canvas, easel, and a very considerable case of other appliances in hand, strolled up the pleasant pathway through the beech-woods to Hammerpond Park, and pitched his apparatus in a strategic position commanding the house. Here he was observed by Mr Raphael Sant, who was returning across the park from a study of the chalk-pits.
On the whole it seems to be most justly ranked as sport, a sport for which no rules are at present formulated, and of which the prizes are distributed in an extremely informal manner. It was this informality of burglary that led to the regrettable extinction of two promising beginners at Hammerpond Park.
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