Chapter IX

George did not want to work, of course; that goes without saying. He had had a hard time in the City, so he explained. Harris said:

“Ah! and now you are going to have a hard time on the river for a change; change is good for everyone!”

I would not let Harris touch the tow-line, because he is careless. I had looped it round slowly and cautiously, and tied it up in the middle, and folded it in two, and laid it down gently at the bottom of the boat. Harris had lifted it up, and had put it into George’s hand. George had taken it firmly, and held it away from him, and had begun to unravel it; and, before he had unwound a dozen yards, the thing was more like a badly-made door-mat than anything else.

An example of the dangerous case was witnessed by George and myself once up near Walton. We were camping on the opposite bank, noticing things in general. A small boat came in sight, towed through the water by a powerful horse, on which sat a very small boy. In the boat there lay five fellows, the man who was steering had a particularly restful appearance.

“I should like to see him pull the wrong line,” murmured George, as they passed. And at that precise moment the man did it, and the boat rushed up the bank. Two men, a hamper, and three oars immediately left the boat on the larboard side, and afterwards, two other men disembarked from the starboard, and sat down among boat-hooks and sails and carpet-bags and bottles. The last man went on twenty yards further, and then got out on his head.

This lightened the boat, and it went on much easier. The small boy shouted, and urged his steed into a gallop. The fellows sat up and stared at one another. It was some seconds before they realised what had happened to them, but, when they did, they began to shout for the boy to stop. He, however, was too much occupied with the horse to hear them, and we watched them, flying after him, until the distance hid them from view.

Of all experiences in connection with towing, the most exciting is being towed by girls. It is a sensation that nobody ought to miss. It takes three girls to tow always; two hold the rope, and the other one runs round and round, and giggles. They generally begin by getting themselves tied up. They get the line round their legs, and have to sit down on the path and undo each other, and then they twist it round their necks, and are nearly strangled. They fix it straight, however, at last, and start off at a run, pulling the boat along at quite a dangerous pace. At the end of a hundred yards they are naturally breathless, and suddenly stop, and all sit down on the grass and laugh, and your boat drifts out to mid-stream and turns round, before you know what has happened. Then they stand up, and are surprised.

“Oh, look!” they say, “he’s gone right out into the middle.”

After this the boat runs aground 1.

You jump up, and you shout to them not to stop.

“Yes. What’s the matter?” they shout back.

“Don’t stop,” you roar.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t stop – go on – go on!”

“Go back, Emily, and see what it is they want,” says one; and Emily comes back, and asks what it is.

“What do you want?” she says, “anything happened?”

1 runs aground – садится на мель

“No,” you reply, “it’s all right; only go on, you know – don’t stop.”

“Why not?”

“We can’t steer, if you stop. You must keep the boat moving.”

“Oh, all right, I’ll tell them. Are we doing it all right?”

“Oh, yes, very nicely, indeed, only don’t stop.”

“It doesn’t seem difficult at all. I thought it was so hard.”

“Oh, no, it’s simple enough. You want to keep on steady at it, that’s all.”

“I see. Give me out my red shawl, it’s under the cushion.”

You find the shawl, and by this time another one has come back and thinks she will have hers too, and they take Mary’s on chance, and Mary does not want it, so they bring it back and have a pocket-comb instead. It is about twenty minutes before they get off again, and, at the next corner, they see a cow, and you have to leave the boat to drive the cow away.

Finally George towed us steadily on to Penton Hook. There we discussed the important question of camping. We had decided to sleep on board that night. We decided to go to Runnymead, three and a half miles further, a quiet wooded part of the river, and where there is good shelter.

We all wished, however, afterward that we had stopped at Penton Hook. Three or four miles up stream is really nothing early in the morning, but it is a hard job at the end of a long day. You do not chat and laugh. Every half-mile you cover seems like two. When you have gone – what seems to you – at least ten miles, and still the lock is not in sight, you begin to seriously fear that somebody had stolen it.

I remember one day I was out with a young lady – cousin on my mother’s side – and we were pulling down to Goring. It was rather late, and we were anxious to come home – at least she was anxious to return home. It was half-past six when we reached Benson’s lock, and dusk was drawing on, and she began to get excited then. I drew out a map I had with me to see exactly how far it was. I saw it was just a mile and a half to the next lock – Wallingford – and five on from there to Cleeve.

“Oh, it’s all right!” I said. “We’ll be through the next lock before seven, and then there is only one more”, and I settled down and pulled steadily away.

We passed the bridge, and soon after that I asked if she saw the lock. She said no, she did not see any lock; and I said, “Oh!” and pulled on. Another five minutes went by, and then I asked her to look again.

“No,” she said; “I can’t see any signs of a lock.”

“You – you are sure you know a lock, when you do see one?” I asked hesitatingly, not wishing to offend her.

The question did offend her, however, and she suggested that I had better look for myself. Not a sign of a lock was to be seen.

“You don’t think we have lost our way, do you?” asked my companion, and she began to cry.

I tried to reassure her. I said that I was not rowing fast, but that we should soon reach the lock now; and I pulled on for another mile.

Then I began to get nervous myself. I looked again at the map. There was Wallingford lock, clearly marked, a mile and a half below Benson’s. It was a good, reliable map. Where were we? What had happened to us? I began to think it must be all a dream, and that I was really asleep in bed.

I asked my cousin if she thought it could be a dream, and she replied that she was just about to ask me the same question; and then we both wondered if we were both asleep, and if so, who was the real one that was dreaming, and who was the one that was only a dream.

I still went on pulling, however, and still no lock came in sight, and the river grew more and more gloomy and mysterious under the gathering shadows of night, and things became weird and uncanny. I thought of hobgoblins and banshees, and will-o’-the-wisps, and those wicked girls who sit up all night on rocks, and lure people into whirl-pools and things. In the middle of these reflections I heard the sounds of a song, played, badly, on a concertina, and knew that we were saved.

I do not admire the tones of a concertina, as a rule; but, oh! how beautiful the music seemed to us both then – far, far more beautiful than the voice of Orpheus or the lute of Apollo. The music was human and reassuring.

The sweet sounds drew nearer, and soon the boat from which they came lay alongside us. I never saw more attractive, lovable people in all my life. I hailed them, and asked if they could tell me the way to Wallingford lock; and I explained that I had been looking for it for the last two hours.

“Wallingford lock!” they answered. “Sir, that’s been done away with for over a year. There is no Wallingford lock now, sir. You’re close to Cleeve now!”

I had never thought of that. We thanked them over and over again, and we said it was a lovely night, and we wished them a pleasant trip, and, I think, I invited them all to come and spend a week with me, and my cousin said her mother would be so pleased to see them. And we got home in time for supper, after all.

Chapter X

Harris and I began to think that Bell Weir lock had dissapeared the same manner. George had towed us up to Staines, and we had taken the boat from there, and it seemed that we were dragging fifty tons after us, and were walking forty miles. It was half-past seven when we came to the place, and we all got in.

We did not feel that we yearned for the picturesque so much now as we had earlier in the day. We did not want scenery. We wanted to have our supper and go to bed. However, we dropped into a very pleasant nook under a great elm-tree, to the spreading roots of which we fastened the boat.

George said that we had better get the canvas up first, before it got quite dark, and while we could see what we were doing. Then, he said, all our work would be done, and we could sit down to eat with an easy mind.

We took up the hoops, and began to drop them into the sockets placed for them. You would not imagine this to be dangerous work. They were not hoops, they were demons. First they would not fit into their sockets at all, and we had to jump on them, and kick them, and hammer at them with the boat-hook; and, when they were in, we saw that they were in the wrong sockets, and they had to come out again.

But they would not come out, they tried to throw us into the water and drown us. They had hinges in the middle, and, when we were not looking, they nipped us with these hinges in delicate parts of the body.

We got them fixed at last, and then we had to arrange the covering over them. George unrolled it, and fastened one end over the nose of the boat. Harris stood in the middle to take it from George and roll it on to me. George did his part all right, but it was new work to Harris.

How he managed it I do not know, he could not explain himself; but by some mysterious process he succeeded, after ten minutes of superhuman effort, in getting himself completely rolled up in it. He was so firmly wrapped round, that he could not get out. He, of course, made frantic struggles for freedom – the birthright of every Englishman, – and, in doing so (I learned this afterwards), knocked over George; and then George, swearing at Harris, began to struggle too, and got himself entangled and rolled up.

I knew nothing about all this at the time. I had been told to stand where I was, and wait till the canvas came to me, and Montmorency and I stood there and waited.

We waited some time, until, at last, George’s head came over the side of the boat, and spoke up.

It said:

“Give us a hand here, can’t you, you cuckoo; standing there, when you see we are both being suffocated, you dummy!”

I never could withstand an appeal for help, so I went and undid them; Harris was nearly black in the face.

It took us half an hour after that, before the canvas was properly up, and then we cleared the decks, and got out supper. We put the kettle, and went down to the stern and pretended to take no notice of it.

That is the only way to deal with the kettle. If it sees that you are waiting for it and are anxious, it will never even sing. You have to go away and begin your meal, as if you were not going to have any tea at all. You must not even look round at it. Then you will soon hear it sounds.

It is a good plan, too, if you are in a great hurry, to talk very loudly to each other about how you don’t need any tea. You get near the kettle, so that it can hear you, and then you shout out, “I don’t want any tea; do you, George?” to which George shouts back, “Oh, no, I don’t like tea; we’ll have lemonade instead – tea’s so indigestible.” And the kettle begins to boil.

We made this old trickery, and it worked. Then we lit the lantern, and sat down to supper.

How good one feels when one is full – how satisfied with the world! People who have tried it, tell me that a clear conscience makes you very happy; but a full stomach does the business quite as well, and is cheaper, and more easily obtained.

One feels so forgiving and generous after a substantial and well-digested meal – so noble-minded, so kindly-hearted.

It is very strange, this domination of our intellect by our digestive organs. We cannot work, we cannot think, unless our stomach wills so. It dictates to us our emotions, our passions. After eggs and bacon, it says, “Work!” After beefsteak and porter, it says, “Sleep!” After a cup of tea (two spoonful for each cup, and don’t let it stand more than three minutes), it says to the brain, “Now, rise, and show your strength. Be eloquent, and deep, and tender; see, with a clear eye, into Nature and into life; and soar over the whirling world beneath you!”

After hot muffins, it says, “Be dull and soulless, like a beast of the field – a brainless animal, with listless eye that lacks hope, or fear, or love, or life.” And after brandy it says, “Now, come, fool, grin and tumble.”

We are but the sorriest slaves of our stomach. Reach not after morality and righteousness, my friends; watch vigilantly your stomach, and diet it with care and judgment. Then virtue and contentment will come and reign within your heart; and you will be a good citizen, a loving husband, and a tender father – a noble, pious man.

Before our supper, Harris and George and I were quarrelsome and snappy and angry; after our supper, we sat and smiled. We loved each other, we loved everybody.

We lit our pipes, and sat, looking out on the quiet night, and talked.

George said why could not we be always like this – away from the world, with its sin and temptation, leading sober, peaceful lives, and doing good. And we discussed the possibility of our going away, we four, to some desert island, and living there in the woods.

George remembered a very funny story that happened to his father once. He said his father was travelling with another fellow through Wales, and, one night, they stopped at a little inn, where there were some other fellows, and they joined the other fellows, and spent the evening with them.

They had a very jolly evening, and sat up late, and, by the time they came to go to bed, they (this was when George’s father was a very young man) were slightly drunk, too. They (George’s father and George’s father’s friend) were to sleep in the same room, but in different beds. They took the candle, and went up. The candle went out, and they had to undress and grope into bed in the dark. This they did; but, instead of getting into separate beds, as they thought they were doing, they both climbed into the same one without knowing it – one getting in with his head at the top, and the other lying with his feet on the pillow.

There was silence for a moment, and then George’s father said:

“Joe!”

“What’s the matter, Tom?” replied Joe’s voice from the other end of the bed.

“Look, there’s a man in my bed,” said George’s father; “here’s his feet on my pillow.”

“Well, it’s an extraordinary thing, Tom,” answered the other; “but there is a man in my bed, too!” “What are you going to do?” asked George’s father.

“Well, I’m going to throw him out,” replied Joe. “So am I,” said George’s father, valiantly.

There was a brief struggle, then a rather doleful voice said:

“I say, Tom!”

“Yes!”

“How are you?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, my man has thrown me out.”

“So has mine! It’s an awful inn!”

We turned in at ten that night, and I thought I should sleep well, being tired; but I didn’t. As a rule, I undress and put my head on the pillow, and then somebody hits at the door, and says it is half-past eight. But tonight everything seemed against me; the hardness of the boat, the cramped position (I was lying with my feet under one seat, and my head on another), the sound of the water round the boat, and the wind among the branches disturbed me.

I did get to sleep for a few hours. I slept through it for a while, dreaming that I had swallowed a sovereign, and that they were cutting a hole in my back with a gimlet, so as to get it out. I thought it very unkind of them, and I told them I would owe them the money, and they should have it at the end of the month. But they would not hear of that, and said it would be much better if they had it then, because otherwise the interest would accumulate so. I told them what I thought of them, and then they pushed me so hard that I woke up.

The boat seemed stuffy, and my head ached; so I stepped out into the cool night air. I put on what clothes I could find about – some of my own, and some of George’s and Harris’s – and crept under the canvas on to the bank.

It was a glorious night. The moon had sunk, and left the quiet earth alone with the stars. They awe us, these strange stars, so cold, so clear.