It was the Saturday before the August Bank Holiday. We were tired and
hungry, we same three, and when we got to Datchet we took out the hamper,
the two bags, and the rugs and coats, and such like things, and started
off to look for diggings. We passed a very pretty little hotel, with
clematis and creeper over the porch; but there was no honeysuckle about
it, and, for some reason or other, I had got my mind fixed on
honeysuckle, and I said:
"Oh, don't let's go in there! Let's go on a bit further, and see if
there isn't one with honeysuckle over it."
So we went on till we came to another hotel. That was a very nice hotel,
too, and it had honey-suckle on it, round at the side; but Harris did not
like the look of a man who was leaning against the front door. He said
he didn't look a nice man at all, and he wore ugly boots: so we went on
further. We went a goodish way without coming across any more hotels,
and then we met a man, and asked him to direct us to a few.
He said:
"Why, you are coming away from them. You must turn right round and go
back, and then you will come to the Stag."
We said:
"Oh, we had been there, and didn't like it - no honeysuckle over it."
"Well, then," he said, "there's the Manor House, just opposite.
