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; and, besides, I recollected the lock myself.
I had been through it twice. 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, and should wake up in a minute, and be told it was past ten.
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; it got quite
interesting.
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 seemed to be getting 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; and I wished I had been a better man, and knew more
hymns; and in the middle of these reflections I heard the blessed strains
of "He's got `em on," 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, or anything of that sort
could have sounded. Heavenly melody, in our then state of mind, would
only have still further harrowed us. A soul-moving harmony, correctly
performed, we should have taken as a spirit-warning, and have given up
all hope. But about the strains of "He's got `em on," jerked
spasmodically, and with involuntary variations, out of a wheezy
accordion, there was something singularly human and reassuring.
The sweet sounds drew nearer, and soon the boat from which they were
worked lay alongside us.
It contained a party of provincial `Arrys and `Arriets, out for a
moonlight sail. (There was not any moon, but that was not their fault.)
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. "Lor' love you, sir, that's been done
away with for over a year. There ain't no Wallingford lock now, sir.
You're close to Cleeve now. Blow me tight if `ere ain't a gentleman been
looking for Wallingford lock, Bill!"
I had never thought of that. I wanted to fall upon all their necks and
bless them; but the stream was running too strong just there to allow of
this, so I had to content myself with mere cold-sounding words of
gratitude.
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 sang the soldiers' chorus out of FAUST, and
got home in time for supper, after all.
CHAPTER X.
OUR FIRST NIGHT. - UNDER CANVAS. - AN APPEAL FOR HELP. - CONTRARINESS OF
TEA-KETTLES, HOW TO OVERCOME. - SUPPER. - HOW TO FEEL VIRTUOUS. - WANTED!
A COMFORTABLY-APPOINTED, WELL-DRAINED DESERT ISLAND, NEIGHBOURHOOD OF
SOUTH PACIFIC OCEAN PREFERRED. - FUNNY THING THAT HAPPENED TO GEORGE'S
FATHER. - A RESTLESS NIGHT.
HARRIS and I began to think that Bell Weir lock must have been done away
with after 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 were through, and we all got in, and sculled up close to the left
bank, looking out for a spot to haul up in.
We had originally intended to go on to Magna Charta Island, a sweetly
pretty part of the river, where it winds through a soft, green valley,
and to camp in one of the many picturesque inlets to be found round that
tiny shore. But, somehow, we did not feel that we yearned for the
picturesque nearly so much now as we had earlier in the day. A bit of
water between a coal-barge and a gas-works would have quite satisfied us
for that night. We did not want scenery. We wanted to have our supper
and go to bed. However, we did pull up to the point - "Picnic Point," it
is called - and dropped into a very pleasant nook under a great elm-tree,
to the spreading roots of which we fastened the boat.
Then we thought we were going to have supper (we had dispensed with tea,
so as to save time), but George said no; 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.
That canvas wanted more putting up than I think any of us had bargained
for. It looked so simple in the abstract. You took five iron arches,
like gigantic croquet hoops, and fitted them up over the boat, and then
stretched the canvas over them, and fastened it down:
