I went up to him to try and
save him.
"Hi! come further in," I said, shaking him by the shoulder. "You'll be
overboard."
"Oh my! I wish I was," was the only answer I could get; and there I had
to leave him.
Three weeks afterwards, I met him in the coffee-room of a Bath hotel,
talking about his voyages, and explaining, with enthusiasm, how he loved
the sea.
"Good sailor!" he replied in answer to a mild young man's envious query;
"well, I did feel a little queer ONCE, I confess. It was off Cape Horn.
The vessel was wrecked the next morning."
I said:
"Weren't you a little shaky by Southend Pier one day, and wanted to be
thrown overboard?"
"Southend Pier!" he replied, with a puzzled expression.
"Yes; going down to Yarmouth, last Friday three weeks."
"Oh, ah - yes," he answered, brightening up; "I remember now. I did have
a headache that afternoon. It was the pickles, you know. They were the
most disgraceful pickles I ever tasted in a respectable boat. Did you
have any?"
For myself, I have discovered an excellent preventive against sea-
sickness, in balancing myself. You stand in the centre of the deck, and,
as the ship heaves and pitches, you move your body about, so as to keep
it always straight. When the front of the ship rises, you lean forward,
till the deck almost touches your nose; and when its back end gets up,
you lean backwards. This is all very well for an hour or two; but you
can't balance yourself for a week.
George said:
"Let's go up the river."
He said we should have fresh air, exercise and quiet; the constant change
of scene would occupy our minds (including what there was of Harris's);
and the hard work would give us a good appetite, and make us sleep well.
Harris said he didn't think George ought to do anything that would have a
tendency to make him sleepier than he always was, as it might be
dangerous.
He said he didn't very well understand how George was going to sleep any
more than he did now, seeing that there were only twenty-four hours in
each day, summer and winter alike; but thought that if he DID sleep any
more, he might just as well be dead, and so save his board and lodging.
Harris said, however, that the river would suit him to a "T." I don't
know what a "T" is (except a sixpenny one, which includes bread-and-
butter and cake AD LIB., and is cheap at the price, if you haven't had
any dinner). It seems to suit everybody, however, which is greatly to
its credit.
It suited me to a "T" too, and Harris and I both said it was a good idea
of George's; and we said it in a tone that seemed to somehow imply that
we were surprised that George should have come out so sensible.
The only one who was not struck with the suggestion was Montmorency. He
never did care for the river, did Montmorency.
"It's all very well for you fellows," he says; "you like it, but I don't.
There's nothing for me to do. Scenery is not in my line, and I don't
smoke. If I see a rat, you won't stop; and if I go to sleep, you get
fooling about with the boat, and slop me overboard. If you ask me, I
call the whole thing bally foolishness."
We were three to one, however, and the motion was carried.
CHAPTER II.
PLANS DISCUSSED. - PLEASURES OF "CAMPING-OUT," ON FINE NIGHTS. - DITTO,
WET NIGHTS. - COMPROMISE DECIDED ON. - MONTMORENCY, FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF.
- FEARS LEST HE IS TOO GOOD FOR THIS WORLD, FEARS SUBSEQUENTLY DISMISSED
AS GROUNDLESS. - MEETING ADJOURNS.
WE pulled out the maps, and discussed plans.
We arranged to start on the following Saturday from Kingston. Harris and
I would go down in the morning, and take the boat up to Chertsey, and
George, who would not be able to get away from the City till the
afternoon (George goes to sleep at a bank from ten to four each day,
except Saturdays, when they wake him up and put him outside at two),
would meet us there.
Should we "camp out" or sleep at inns?
George and I were for camping out. We said it would be so wild and free,
so patriarchal like.
Slowly the golden memory of the dead sun fades from the hearts of the
cold, sad clouds. Silent, like sorrowing children, the birds have ceased
their song, and only the moorhen's plaintive cry and the harsh croak of
the corncrake stirs the awed hush around the couch of waters, where the
dying day breathes out her last.
From the dim woods on either bank, Night's ghostly army, the grey
shadows, creep out with noiseless tread to chase away the lingering rear-
guard of the light, and pass, with noiseless, unseen feet, above the
waving river-grass, and through the sighing rushes; and Night, upon her
sombre throne, folds her black wings above the darkening world, and, from
her phantom palace, lit by the pale stars, reigns in stillness.
Then we run our little boat into some quiet nook, and the tent is
pitched, and the frugal supper cooked and eaten. Then the big pipes are
filled and lighted, and the pleasant chat goes round in musical
undertone; while, in the pauses of our talk, the river, playing round the
boat, prattles strange old tales and secrets, sings low the old child's
song that it has sung so many thousand years - will sing so many thousand
years to come, before its voice grows harsh and old - a song that we, who
have learnt to love its changing face, who have so often nestled on its
yielding bosom, think, somehow, we understand, though we could not tell
you in mere words the story that we listen to.
