CHAPTER IX.
George is introduced to work.--Heathenish instincts oftow-lines.--Ungrateful conduct of a double-sculling skiff.--Towers andtowed.--A use discovered for lovers.--Strange disappearance of an elderlylady.--Much haste, less speed.--Being towed by girls: excitingsensation.--The missing lock or the haunted river.--Music.--Saved!
We made George work, now we had got him. He did not want to work, ofcourse; that goes without saying. He had had a hard time in the City, sohe explained. Harris, who is callous in his nature, and not prone topity, said:
"Ah! and now you are going to have a hard time on the river for a change;change is good for everyone. Out you get!"
He could not in conscience--not even George's conscience--object, thoughhe did suggest that, perhaps, it would be better for him to stop in theboat, and get tea ready, while Harris and I towed, because getting teawas such a worrying work, and Harris and I looked tired. The only replywe made to this, however, was to pass him over the tow-line, and he tookit, and stepped out.
[Picture: Dog wrapped in tow-line] There is something very strange andunaccountable about a tow-line. You roll it up with as much patience andcare as you would take to fold up a new pair of trousers, and fiveminutes afterwards, when you pick it up, it is one ghastly,soul-revolting tangle.
I do not wish to be insulting, but I firmly believe that if you took anaverage tow-line, and stretched it out straight across the middle of afield, and then turned your back on it for thirty seconds, that, when youlooked round again, you would find that it had got itself altogether in aheap in the middle of the field, and had twisted itself up, and tieditself into knots, and lost its two ends, and become all loops; and itwould take you a good half-hour, sitting down there on the grass andswearing all the while, to disentangle it again.
That is my opinion of tow-lines in general. Of course, there may behonourable exceptions; I do not say that there are not. There may betow-lines that are a credit to their profession--conscientious,respectable tow-lines--tow-lines that do not imagine they arecrochet-work, and try to knit themselves up into antimacassars theinstant they are left to themselves. I say there _may_ be suchtow-lines; I sincerely hope there are. But I have not met with them.
This tow-line I had taken in myself just before we had got to the lock.I would not let Harris touch it, because he is careless. I had looped itround slowly and cautiously, and tied it up in the middle, and folded itin two, and laid it down gently at the bottom of the boat. Harris hadlifted it up scientifically, and had put it into George's hand. Georgehad taken it firmly, and held it away from him, and had begun to unravelit as if he were taking the swaddling clothes off a new-born infant; and,before he had unwound a dozen yards, the thing was more like a badly-madedoor-mat than anything else.
It is always the same, and the same sort of thing always goes on inconnection with it. The man on the bank, who is trying to disentangleit, thinks all the fault lies with the man who rolled it up; and when aman up the river thinks a thing, he says it.
"What have you been trying to do with it, make a fishing-net of it?You've made a nice mess you have; why couldn't you wind it up properly,you silly dummy?" he grunts from time to time as he struggles wildly withit, and lays it out flat on the tow-path, and runs round and round it,trying to find the end.
On the other hand, the man who wound it up thinks the whole cause of themuddle rests with the man who is trying to unwind it.
"It was all right when you took it!" he exclaims indignantly. "Why don'tyou think what you are doing? You go about things in such a slap-dashstyle. You'd get a scaffolding pole entangled _you_ would!"
And they feel so angry with one another that they would like to hang eachother with the thing. Ten minutes go by, and the first man gives a yelland goes mad, and dances on the rope, and tries to pull it straight byseizing hold of the first piece that comes to his hand and hauling at it.Of course, this only gets it into a tighter tangle than ever. Then thesecond man climbs out of the boat and comes to help him, and they get ineach other's way, and hinder one another. They both get hold of the samebit of line, and pull at it in opposite directions, and wonder where itis caught. In the end, they do get it clear, and then turn round andfind that the boat has drifted off, and is making straight for the weir.
This really happened once to my own knowledge. It was up by Boveney, onerather windy morning. We were pulling down stream, and, as we came roundthe bend, we noticed a couple of men on the bank. They were looking ateach other with as bewildered and helplessly miserable expression as Ihave ever witnessed on any human countenance before or since, and theyheld a long tow-line between them. It was clear that something hadhappened, so we eased up and asked them what was the matter.
"Why, our boat's gone off!" they replied in an indignant tone. "We justgot out to disentangle the tow-line, and when we looked round, it wasgone!"
And they seemed hurt at what they evidently regarded as a mean andungrateful act on the part of the boat.
We found the truant for them half a mile further down, held by somerushes, and we brought it back to them. I bet they did not give thatboat another chance for a week.
I shall never forget the picture of those two men walking up and down thebank with a tow-line, looking for their boat.
One sees a good many funny incidents up the river in connection withtowing. One of the most common is the sight of a couple of towers,walking briskly along, deep in an animated discussion, while the man inthe boat, a hundred yards behind them, is vainly shrieking to them tostop, and making frantic signs of distress with a scull. Something hasgone wrong; the rudder has come off, or the boat-hook has slippedoverboard, or his hat has dropped into the water and is floating rapidlydown stream.
He calls to them to stop, quite gently and politely at first.
[Picture: Hat in the water] "Hi! stop a minute, will you?" he shoutscheerily. "I've dropped my hat over-board."
Then: "Hi! Tom--Dick! can't you hear?" not quite so affably this time.
Then: "Hi! Confound _you_, you dunder-headed idiots! Hi! stop! Ohyou--!"
After that he springs up, and dances about, and roars himself red in theface, and curses everything he knows. And the small boys on the bankstop and jeer at him, and pitch stones at him as he is pulled along pastthem, at the rate of four miles an hour, and can't get out.
Much of this sort of trouble would be saved if those who are towing wouldkeep remembering that they are towing, and give a pretty frequent lookround to see how their man is getting on. It is best to let one persontow. When two are doing it, they get chattering, and forget, and theboat itself, offering, as it does, but little resistance, is of no realservice in reminding them of the fact.
As an example of how utterly oblivious a pair of towers can be to theirwork, George told us, later on in the evening, when we were discussingthe subject after supper, of a very curious instance.
[Picture: Two people towing, boat adrift]
He and three other men, so he said, were sculling a very heavily ladenboat up from Maidenhead one evening, and a little above Cookham lock theynoticed a fellow and a girl, walking along the towpath, both deep in anapparently interesting and absorbing conversation. They were carrying aboat-hook between them, and, attached to the boat-hook was a tow-line,which trailed behind them, its end in the water. No boat was near, noboat was in sight. There must have been a boat attached to that tow-lineat some time or other, that was certain; but what had become of it, whatghastly fate had overtaken it, and those who had been left in it, wasburied in mystery. Whatever the accident may have been, however, it hadin no way disturbed the young lady and gentleman, who were towing. Theyhad the boat-hook and they had the line, and that seemed to be all thatthey thought necessary to their work.
George was about to call out and wake them up, but, at that moment, abright idea flashed across him, and he didn't. He got the hitcherinstead, and reached over, and drew in the end of the tow-line; and theymade a
loop in it, and put it over their mast, and then they tidied upthe sculls, and went and sat down in the stern, and lit their pipes.
And that young man and young woman towed those four hulking chaps and aheavy boat up to Marlow.
George said he never saw so much thoughtful sadness concentrated into oneglance before, as when, at the lock, that young couple grasped the ideathat, for the last two miles, they had been towing the wrong boat.George fancied that, if it had not been for the restraining influence ofthe sweet woman at his side, the young man might have given way toviolent language.
The maiden was the first to recover from her surprise, and, when she did,she clasped her hands, and said, wildly:
"Oh, Henry, then _where_ is auntie?"
"Did they ever recover the old lady?" asked Harris.
George replied he did not know.
Another example of the dangerous want of sympathy between tower and towedwas witnessed by George and myself once up near Walton. It was where thetow-path shelves gently down into the water, and we were camping on theopposite bank, noticing things in general. By-and-by a small boat camein sight, towed through the water at a tremendous pace by a powerfulbarge horse, on which sat a very small boy. Scattered about the boat, indreamy and reposeful attitudes, lay five fellows, the man who wassteering having a particularly restful appearance.
"I should like to see him pull the wrong line," murmured George, as theypassed. And at that precise moment the man did it, and the boat rushedup the bank with a noise like the ripping up of forty thousand linensheets. Two men, a hamper, and three oars immediately left the boat onthe larboard side, and reclined on the bank, and one and a half momentsafterwards, two other men disembarked from the starboard, and sat downamong boat-hooks and sails and carpet-bags and bottles. The last manwent on twenty yards further, and then got out on his head.
This seemed to sort of lighten the boat, and it went on much easier, thesmall boy shouting at the top of his voice, and urging his steed into agallop. The fellows sat up and stared at one another. It was someseconds before they realised what had happened to them, but, when theydid, they began to shout lustily for the boy to stop. He, however, wastoo much occupied with the horse to hear them, and we watched them,flying after him, until the distance hid them from view.
I cannot say I was sorry at their mishap. Indeed, I only wish that allthe young fools who have their boats towed in this fashion--and plentydo--could meet with similar misfortunes. Besides the risk they runthemselves, they become a danger and an annoyance to every other boatthey pass. Going at the pace they do, it is impossible for them to getout of anybody else's way, or for anybody else to get out of theirs.Their line gets hitched across your mast, and overturns you, or itcatches somebody in the boat, and either throws them into the water, orcuts their face open. The best plan is to stand your ground, and beprepared to keep them off with the butt-end of a mast.
Of all experiences in connection with towing, the most exciting is beingtowed by girls. It is a sensation that nobody ought to miss. It takesthree girls to tow always; two hold the rope, and the other one runsround and round, and giggles. They generally begin by getting themselvestied up. They get the line round their legs, and have to sit down on thepath and undo each other, and then they twist it round their necks, andare nearly strangled. They fix it straight, however, at last, and startoff at a run, pulling the boat along at quite a dangerous pace. At theend 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 tomid-stream and turns round, before you know what has happened, or can gethold of a scull. Then they stand up, and are surprised.
"Oh, look!" they say; "he's gone right out into the middle."
[Picture: Lady pinning up frock] They pull on pretty steadily for a bit,after this, and then it all at once occurs to one of them that she willpin up her frock, and they ease up for the purpose, and the boat runsaground.
You jump up, and push it off, 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 comesback, and asks what it is.
"What do you want?" she says; "anything happened?"
"No," you reply, "it's all right; only go on, you know--don't stop."
"Why not?"
"Why, we can't steer, if you keep stopping. You must keep some way onthe boat."
"Keep some what?"
"Some way--you must keep the boat moving."
"Oh, all right, I'll tell 'em. 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'sall."
"I see. Give me out my red shawl, it's under the cushion."
You find the shawl, and hand it out, and by this time another one hascome back and thinks she will have hers too, and they take Mary's onchance, and Mary does not want it, so they bring it back and have apocket-comb instead. It is about twenty minutes before they get offagain, and, at the next corner, they see a cow, and you have to leave theboat to chivy the cow out of their way.
There is never a dull moment in the boat while girls are towing it.
George got the line right after a while, and towed us steadily on toPenton Hook. There we discussed the important question of camping. Wehad decided to sleep on board that night, and we had either to lay upjust about there, or go on past Staines. It seemed early to think aboutshutting up then, however, with the sun still in the heavens, and wesettled to push straight on for Runnymead, three and a half milesfurther, a quiet wooded part of the river, and where there is goodshelter.
We all wished, however, afterward that we had stopped at Penton Hook.Three or four miles up stream is a trifle, early in the morning, but itis a weary pull at the end of a long day. You take no interest in thescenery during these last few miles. You do not chat and laugh. Everyhalf-mile you cover seems like two. You can hardly believe you are onlywhere 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, andstill the lock is not in sight, you begin to seriously fear that somebodymust 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 wewere pulling down to Goring. It was rather late, and we were anxious toget in--at least _she_ was anxious to get in. It was half-past six whenwe reached Benson's lock, and dusk was drawing on, and she began to getexcited then. She said she must be in to supper. I said it was a thingI felt I wanted to be in at, too; and I drew out a map I had with me tosee exactly how far it was. I saw it was just a mile and a half to thenext lock--Wallingford--and five on from there to Cleeve.
"Oh, it's all right!" I said. "We'll be through the next lock beforeseven, and then there is only one more;" and I settled down and pulledsteadily 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 askedhesitatingly, not wishing to offend her.
The question did offend her, however, and she suggested that I had betterlook for myself; so I laid down the sculls, and took a view. The riverstretched out straight before us in the twilight for about a mile; not aghost of a lock was to be seen.
"You don't think we have lost our way, do you?" asked my companion.
I did not see how that was possible; though, as I suggested, we mighthave somehow got into the weir stream, and be making for t
he falls.
This idea did not comfort her in the least, and she began to cry. Shesaid we should both be drowned, and that it was a judgment on her forcoming out with me.
It seemed an excessive punishment, I thought; but my cousin thought not,and hoped it would all soon be over.
I tried to reassure her, and to make light of the whole affair. I saidthat the fact evidently was that I was not rowing as fast as I fancied Iwas, but that we should soon reach the lock now; and I pulled on foranother mile.
Then I began to get nervous myself. I looked again at the map. Therewas 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? Ibegan to think it must be all a dream, and that I was really asleep inbed, 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 repliedthat she was just about to ask me the same question; and then we bothwondered if we were both asleep, and if so, who was the real one that wasdreaming, and who was the one that was only a dream; it got quiteinteresting.
I still went on pulling, however, and still no lock came in sight, andthe river grew more and more gloomy and mysterious under the gatheringshadows of night, and things seemed to be getting weird and uncanny. Ithought of hobgoblins and banshees, and will-o'-the-wisps, and thosewicked girls who sit up all night on rocks, and lure people intowhirl-pools and things; and I wished I had been a better man, and knewmore hymns; and in the middle of these reflections I heard the blessedstrains of "He's got 'em on," played, badly, on a concertina, and knewthat we were saved.
I do not admire the tones of a concertina, as a rule; but, oh! howbeautiful the music seemed to us both then--far, far more beautiful thanthe voice of Orpheus or the lute of Apollo, or anything of that sortcould have sounded. Heavenly melody, in our then state of mind, wouldonly have still further harrowed us. A soul-moving harmony, correctlyperformed, we should have taken as a spirit-warning, and have given upall hope. But about the strains of "He's got 'em on," jerkedspasmodically, and with involuntary variations, out of a wheezyaccordion, there was something singularly human and reassuring.
The sweet sounds drew nearer, and soon the boat from which they wereworked lay alongside us.
It contained a party of provincial 'Arrys and 'Arriets, out for amoonlight sail. (There was not any moon, but that was not their fault.)I never saw more attractive, lovable people in all my life. I hailedthem, and asked if they could tell me the way to Wallingford lock; and Iexplained that I had been looking for it for the last two hours.
"Wallingford lock!" they answered. "Lor' love you, sir, that's been doneaway 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 beenlooking for Wallingford lock, Bill!"
I had never thought of that. I wanted to fall upon all their necks andbless them; but the stream was running too strong just there to allow ofthis, so I had to content myself with mere cold-sounding words ofgratitude.
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 tocome and spend a week with me, and my cousin said her mother would be sopleased to see them. And we sang the soldiers' chorus out of _Faust_,and got home in time for supper, after all.
[Picture: People in rowing boat]
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