Every
half-mile you cover seems like two. You can hardly believe you are only
where you are, and you are convinced that the map must be wrong; and,
when you have trudged along for what seems to you at least ten miles, and
still the lock is not in sight, you begin to seriously fear that somebody
must have sneaked it, and run off with it.
I remember being terribly upset once up the river (in a figurative sense,
I mean). 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 get in - at least SHE was anxious to get in. It was half-past six
when we reached Benson's lock, and dusk was drawing on, and she began to
get excited then. She said she must be in to supper. I said it was a
thing I felt I wanted to be in at, too; and 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.
