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Declining the proposals of our wives to see us safely in the train for Liverpool, Peter Dodd and I took a cab to Charing Cross Railway Station and booked to Boulogne-sur-Mer. I at one time had my suspicions that my "better half" was not without a knowledge of our real destination, but her anxiety to see that my portmanteau was properly packed disarmed me; and her last words at parting were, "Don't work too hard. Amuse yourself a little—you want a change." Peter and I were both quite certain that Mrs. Dodd had not the least idea of our plot, and to perfect the scheme we had letters sent to a friend in Liverpool, to be duly posted, acquainting our wives with our arrival, and expressing our sorrow at being separated from them even for such a short space of time.

Dull care we threw to the winds, and no two men could have stepped on French soil more bent on enjoyment. The very air seemed to exhilarate us; it was like quaffing a bumper of champagne. Of course you know Boulogne. Need I describe to you the beauty of the sands, the antiquity of the old town, the village fetes at Pont-des-Briques and Portelle, the quaint costumes and massive ornaments of the fish-women, or the particular class of Englishmen you are bound to meet there in and out of season?