There was plenty of it.  Evidently the reporter had regarded it as a “scoop,” and the editor had backed him up with ample space and hair-raising head-lines.

“HORRIBLE DISCOVERY IN A WATERCRESS-BED AT SIDCUP!

“A startling discovery was made yesterday afternoon in the course of clearing out a watercress-bed near the erstwhile rural village of Sidcup in Kent; a discovery that will occasion many a disagreeable qualm to those persons who have been in the habit of regaling themselves with this refreshing esculent.  But before proceeding to a description of the circumstances of the actual discovery or of the objects found—­which, however, it may be stated at once, are nothing more or less than the fragments of a dismembered human body—­it will be interesting to trace the remarkable chain of coincidences by virtue of which the discovery was made.

“The beds in question have been laid out in a small artificial lake fed by a tiny streamlet which forms one of the numerous tributaries of the River Cray.  Its depth is greater than is usual in watercress-beds, otherwise the gruesome relics could never have been concealed beneath its surface, and the flow of water through it, though continuous, is slow.  The tributary streamlet meanders through a succession of pasture meadows, in one of which the beds themselves are situated, and here throughout most of the year the fleecy victims of the human carnivore carry on the industry of converting grass into mutton.  Now it happened some years ago that the sheep frequenting these pastures became affected with the disease known as ‘liver-rot’; and here we must make a short digression into the domain of pathology.

“‘Liver-rot’ is a disease of quite romantic antecedents.  Its cause is a small, flat worm—­the liver-fluke—­which infests the liver and bile-ducts of the affected sheep.

“Now how does the worm get into the sheep’s liver?  That is where the romance comes in.  Let us see.

“The cycle of transformations begins with the deposit of the eggs of the fluke in some shallow stream or ditch running through pasture lands.  Now each egg has a sort of lid, which presently opens and lets out a minute, hairy creature who swims away in search of a particular kind of water-snail—­the kind called by naturalists Limnaea truncatula.  If he finds a snail, he bores his way into its flesh and soon begins to grow and wax fat.  Then he brings forth a family—­of tiny worms quite unlike himself, little creatures called rediae, which soon give birth to families of young rediae.  So they may go on for several generations, but at last there comes a generation of rediae which, instead of giving birth to fresh rediae, produce families of totally different offspring; big-headed, long-tailed creatures like miniature tadpoles, called by the learned cercariae.  The cercariae soon wriggle their way out of the body of the snail, and then complications arise:  for it is the habit