Chapter XVIII

We left Streatley early the next morning, and pulled up to Culham.

The river is not extraordinarily interesting between Streatley and Wallingford. For myself, I am fond of locks. They are picturesque little spots, these locks. The stout old lock-keeper, or his cheer-ful-looking wife, or bright-eyed daughter, are pleasant people to have a chat with. You meet other boats there, and river gossip is always present. The Thames would not be nice without its locks.

Talking of locks reminds me of an accident George and I had one summer’s morning at Hampton Court. It was a glorious day, and the lock was crowded; and a photographer was taking a picture of us all as we lay upon the rising waters.

First I was extremely surprised. My first idea was that George had seen a girl he knew. Everybody in the lock was strange. They were all standing or sitting. All the girls were smiling. Oh, they did look so sweet! And all the fellows were frowning, and looking stern and noble.

And then, at last, I understood that somebody was going to take a picture. Our boat was the first one, and it would be very unkind to spoil the man’s picture, I thought.

So I arranged my hair with a curl over the forehead, and threw an air of tender wistfulness into my expression.

As we stood, waiting for the eventful moment, I heard someone behind call out:

“Hi! look at your nose.”

I could not turn round to see what was the matter, and whose nose it was mentioned. I looked at George’s nose! It was all right – there was nothing wrong with it. I looked at my own nose, and that was in order, too.

“Look at your nose, you stupid ass!” came the same voice again, louder.

And then another voice cried:

“Push your nose out, can’t you, you – you two with the dog!”

Neither George nor I dared to turn round. What was the matter with our noses?

But now the whole lock started yelling:

“Look at your boat, sir; you in the red and black caps. We’ll have your dead bodies in that photo, if you aren’t quick.”

We looked then, and saw that the nose of our boat had got fixed under the woodwork of the lock, while the incoming water was rising all around it.

We did not come out well in that photograph, George and I. Of course, we were both lying on our backs with a wild expression of “Where am I? and what is it?” on our faces, and our four feet waving madly in the air.

Our feet were undoubtedly the leading article in that photograph. Indeed, very little else was to be seen. Later everybody refused to subscribe to the picture.

The owner of one steam launch said he would take the pictures if anybody could show him his launch, but nobody could. It was somewhere behind George’s right foot.

The photographer thought we ought to take a dozen copies each, but we declined.

The mildest tempered people, when on land, become violent and blood-thirsty when in a boat. I did a little boating once with a young lady. She was one of the sweetest and gentlest girls in the world, but on the river it was quite awful to hear her.

“Oh, drat the man!” she exclaimed, when an unfortunate sculler got in her way. “Why doesn’t he look where he’s going?”

And, “Oh, bother the silly old thing!” she said indignantly, when the sail would not go up properly. But as I have said, when on shore she was kind-hearted and amiable enough.

The air of the river has a demoralising effect upon one’s temper, and this it is, I suppose, which causes even noble men to be sometimes rude to one another, and to use language which, no doubt, in their calmer moments they regret.

Chapter XIX

We spent two very pleasant days at Oxford. There are plenty of dogs in the town of Oxford.

Montmorency had eleven fights on the first day, and fourteen on the second, and evidently thought he had got to heaven.

To those who make Oxford their starting-place, I recommend to take your own boat – unless, of course, you can take someone else’s without any possible danger. The man in the hired boat is modest and retiring. He likes to keep on the shady side, underneath the trees, and to do most of his travelling early in the morning or late at night, when there are not many people about on the river to look at him.

When the man in the hired boat sees anyone he knows, he gets out on to the bank, and hides behind a tree.

One summer we hired a boat, for a few days’ trip. We had written for a boat – a double sculling skiff; and when we went down with our bags to the yard, and gave our names, the man said:

“Oh, yes; you’re the people that wrote for a double sculling skiff. It’s all right. Jim, do bring The Pride of the Thames.”

The boy went, and re-appeared five minutes afterwards, struggling with an antediluvian chunk of wood.

My own idea, on first catching sight of the object, was that it was a Roman relic, possibly, a coffin. The neighbourhood of the upper Thames is rich in Roman relics; but our serious young man, who was a geologist, said it was clear that the thing the boy had found was the fossil of a whale, and it must have belonged to the preglacial period.

To settle the dispute, we appealed to the boy. We told him not to be afraid, but to speak the plain truth: Was it the fossil of a pre-Adamite whale, or was it an early Roman coffin?

The boy said it was The Pride of the Thames.

We thought this a very humorous answer, and somebody gave him twopence as a reward.

“Come, come, my boy!” said our captain sharply. “Don’t let us have any nonsense. You take your mother’s washing-tub home again, and bring us a boat.”

The boat-builder himself came up then, and assured us, as a practical man, that the thing really was a boat – was, in fact, the boat, the ‘double sculling skiff’. He even seemed offended. He said he had picked us out the best boat in all his stock, and he thought we might have been more grateful.

We argued no more. They charged us thirty-five shillings for the loan of the remnant for six days.

The weather changed on the third day, – Oh! I am talking about our present trip now, – and we started from Oxford upon our homeward journey in the midst of a steady drizzle.

We rowed on all that day through the rain, and very melancholy work it was. We pretended, at first, that we enjoyed it. We said it was a change, and that we liked to see the river under all its different aspects. We told each other that Nature was beautiful, even in her tears.

Indeed, Harris and I were quite enthusiastic, for the first few hours. And we sang a song about a gipsy’s life, and how delightful a gipsy’s existence was! – free to storm and sunshine, and to every wind that blew! – and how he enjoyed the rain; and how he laughed at people who didn’t like it.

The rain poured down with quiet persistency. Everything in the boat was damp and clammy. Supper was not a success. Cold veal pie, when you don’t feel hungry, is terrible. Harris passed the remains of his pie to Montmorency, who declined it, and, apparently insulted by the offer, went and sat over at the other end of the boat by himself.

After that, we sat round and talked about sciatica, fevers, chills, lung diseases, and bronchitis; and Harris said how very awkward it would be if one of us were taken seriously ill in the night, seeing how far away we were from a doctor.

In a weak moment I suggested that George should get out his banjo, and see if he could play us a comic song.

He at once fished out his instrument, and commenced to play “Two Lovely Black Eyes.”

“Two lovely black eyes;

Oh! what a surprise!

Only for telling a man he was wrong,

Two – ”

Harris sobbed like a little child, and the dog howled madly. George wanted to go on with another verse, but we declined.

The second day was exactly like the first. The rain continued to pour down, and we sat, wrapped up in our mackintoshes, underneath the canvas, and drifted slowly down.

“It’s only two days more,” said Harris, “and we are young and strong.”

At about four o’clock we began to discuss our plans for the evening. We were a little past Goring.

“Yes it’s almost a pity we’ve taken this boat,” said Harris; and then there was silence for a while.

Nobody spoke. In silence, we dragged out our suitcase. We looked up the river and down the river; not a soul was in sight!

Twenty minutes later, three figures, followed by a dog, were creeping towards the railway station, dressed in:

Black leather shoes, dirty;

suit of boating flannels, very dirty;

brown felt hat, much battered;

mackintosh, very wet;

umbrella.

We had deceived the boatman. We had not told him that we were running away from the rain. We had left the boat, and all it contained. If, we said – if anything should happen, we would write to him.

We reached Paddington at seven, and drove direct to the restaurant.

I enjoyed that supper very much. For about ten days we have been living, more or less, on nothing but cold meat, cake, and bread and jam. It was a simple diet; but there was nothing exciting about it, and the odour of Burgundy, and the smell of French sauces, and the sight of clean napkins and long loaves, knocked as a very welcome visitor at the door of our souls.

Then Harris, who was sitting next the window, drew aside the curtain and looked out upon the street.

It was dark and wet, the rain splashed steadily into the puddles. A few soaked men hurried past,

the women holding up their skirts.

“Well,” said Harris, reaching his hand out for his glass, “we have had a pleasant trip, and my hearty thanks for it to our Thames – here’s to Three Men in a Boat!”

And Montmorency, standing on his hind legs, before the window, gave a short bark of approval.