We agreed that we would pull this morning, as a change from towing; and Harris
thought the best arrangement would be that George and I should scull, and he steer.
I did not chime in with this idea at all; I said I thought Harris would have been
showing a more proper spirit if he had suggested that he and George should work,
and let me rest a bit. It seemed to me that I was doing more than my fair share
of the work on this trip, and I was beginning to feel strongly on the subject.
It always does seem to me that I am doing more work than I should do. It is not
that I object to the work, mind you; I like work: it fascinates me. I can sit and
look at it for hours. I love to keep it by me: the idea of getting rid of it nearly
breaks my heart.
You cannot give me too much work; to accumulate work has almost become a passion
with me: my study is so full of it now, that there is hardly an inch of room for
any more. I shall have to throw out a wing soon.
And I am careful of my work, too. Why, some of the work that I have by me now
has been in my possession for years and years, and there isn't a finger-mark on
it. I take a great pride in my work; I take it down now and then and dust it. No
man keeps his work in a better state of preservation than I do.
But, though I crave for work, I still like to be fair. I do not ask for more
than my proper share.
But I get it without asking for it – at least, so it appears to me – and this
George says he does not think I need trouble myself on the subject. He thinks
it is only my over-scrupulous nature that makes me fear I am having more than my
due; and that, as a matter of fact, I don't have half as much as I ought. But I
expect he only says this to comfort me.
In a boat, I have always noticed that it is the fixed idea of each member of
the crew that he is doing everything. Harris's notion was, that it was he alone
who had been working, and that both George and I had been imposing upon him. George,
on the other hand, ridiculed the idea of Harris's having done anything more than
eat and sleep, and had a cast– iron opinion that it was he – George himself – who
had done all the labour worth speaking of.
He said he had never been out with such a couple of lazily skulks as Harris and
That amused Harris.
''Fancy old George talking about work!'' he laughed; ''why, about half-an– hour
of it would kill him. Have you ever seen George work?'' he added, turning to me.
I agreed with Harris that I never had – most certainly not since we had started
on this trip.
''Well, I don't see how YOU can know much about it, one way or the other,'' George
retorted on Harris; ''for I'm blest if you haven't been asleep half the time. Have
you ever seen Harris fully awake, except at meal-time?'' asked George, addressing
Truth compelled me to support George. Harris had been very little good in the
boat, so far as helping was concerned, from the beginning.
''Well, hang it all, I've done more than old J., anyhow,'' rejoined Harris.
''Well, you couldn't very well have done less,'' added George.
''I suppose J. thinks he is the passenger,'' continued Harris.
And that was their gratitude to me for having brought them and their wretched
old boat all the way up from Kingston, and for having superintended and managed
everything for them, and taken care of them, and slaved for them. It is the way
of the world.
We settled the present difficulty by arranging that Harris and George should
scull up past Reading, and that I should tow the boat on from there. Pulling a heavy
boat against a strong stream has few attractions for me now. There was a time, long
ago, when I used to clamour for the hard work: now I like to give the youngsters
I notice that most of the old river hands are similarly retiring, whenever there
is any stiff pulling to be done. You can always tell the old river hand by the way
in which he stretches himself out upon the cushions at the bottom of the boat, and
encourages the rowers by telling them anecdotes about the marvellous feats he performed
''Call what you're doing hard work!'' he drawls, between his contented whiffs,
addressing the two perspiring novices, who have been grinding away steadily up stream
for the last hour and a half; ''why, Jim Biffles and Jack and I, last season, pulled
up from Marlow to Goring in one afternoon – never stopped once. Do you remember
Jack, who has made himself a bed up in the prow of all the rugs and coats he
can collect, and who has been lying there asleep for the last two hours, partially
wakes up on being thus appealed to, and recollects all about the matter, and also
remembers that there was an unusually strong stream against them all the way – likewise
a stiff wind.
''About thirty-four miles, I suppose, it must have been,'' adds the first speaker,
reaching down another cushion to put under his head.
'' No – no; don't exaggerate, Tom,'' murmurs Jack, reprovingly; ''thirty– three
at the outside.''
And Jack and Tom, quite exhausted by this conversational effort, drop off to
sleep once more. And the two simple-minded youngsters at the sculls feel quite proud
of being allowed to row such wonderful oarsmen as Jack and Tom, and strain away
harder than ever.
When I was a young man, I used to listen to these tales from my elders, and take
them in, and swallow them, and digest every word of them, and then come up for more;
but the new generation do not seem to have the simple faith of the old times. We
– George, Harris, and myself – took a ''raw'un'' up with us once last season, and
we plied him with the customary stretchers about the wonderful things we had done
all the way up.
We gave him all the regular ones – the time-honoured lies that have done duty
up the river with every boating-man for years past – and added seven entirely original
ones that we had invented for ourselves, including a really quite likely story,
founded, to a certain extent, on an all but true episode, which had actually happened
in a modified degree some years ago to friends of ours – a story that a mere child
could have believed without injuring itself, much.
And that young man mocked at them all, and wanted us to repeat the feats then
and there, and to bet us ten to one that we didn't.
We got to chatting about our rowing experiences this morning, and to recounting
stories of our first efforts in the art of oarsmanship. My own earliest boating
recollection is of five of us contributing threepence each and taking out a curiously
constructed craft on the Regent's Park lake, drying ourselves subsequently, in the
After that, having acquired a taste for the water, I did a good deal of rafting
in various suburban brickfields – an exercise providing more interest and excitement
than might be imagined, especially when you are in the middle of the pond and the
proprietor of the materials of which the raft is constructed suddenly appears on
the bank, with a big stick in his hand.
Your first sensation on seeing this gentleman is that, somehow or other, you
don't feel equal to company and conversation, and that, if you could do so without
appearing rude, you would rather avoid meeting him; and your object is, therefore,
to get off on the opposite side of the pond to which he is, and to go home quietly
and quickly, pretending not to see him. He, on the contrary is yearning to take
you by the hand, and talk to you.
It appears that he knows your father, and is intimately acquainted with yourself,
but this does not draw you towards him. He says he'll teach you to take his boards
and make a raft of them; but, seeing that you know how to do this pretty well already,
the offer, though doubtless kindly meant, seems a superfluous one on his part, and
you are reluctant to put him to any trouble by accepting it.
His anxiety to meet you, however, is proof against all your coolness, and the
energetic manner in which he dodges up and down the pond so as to be on the spot
to greet you when you land is really quite flattering.
If he be of a stout and short-winded build, you can easily avoid his advances;
but, when he is of the youthful and long-legged type, a meeting is inevitable. The
interview is, however, extremely brief, most of the conversation being on his part,
your remarks being mostly of an exclamatory and mono-syllabic order, and as soon
as you can tear yourself away you do so.
I devoted some three months to rafting, and, being then as proficient as there
was any need to be at that branch of the art, I determined to go in for rowing proper,
and joined one of the Lea boating clubs.
Being out in a boat on the river Lea, especially on Saturday afternoons, soon
makes you smart at handling a craft, and spry at escaping being run down by roughs
or swamped by barges; and it also affords plenty of opportunity for acquiring the
most prompt and graceful method of lying down flat at the bottom of the boat so
as to avoid being chucked out into the river by passing tow-lines.
But it does not give you style. It was not till I came to the Thames that I got
style. My style of rowing is very much admired now. People say it is so quaint.
George never went near the water until he was sixteen. Then he and eight other
gentlemen of about the same age went down in a body to Kew one Saturday, with the
idea of hiring a boat there, and pulling to Richmond and back; one of their number,
a shock-headed youth, named Joskins, who had once or twice taken out a boat on the
Serpentine, told them it was jolly fun, boating!
The tide was running out pretty rapidly when they reached the landing– stage,
and there was a stiff breeze blowing across the river, but this did not trouble
them at all, and they proceeded to select their boat.
There was an eight-oared racing outrigger drawn up on the stage; that was the
one that took their fancy. They said they'd have that one, please. The boatman was
away, and only his boy was in charge. The boy tried to damp their ardour for the
outrigger, and showed them two or three very comfortable-looking boats of the family-party
build, but those would not do at all; the outrigger was the boat they thought they
would look best in.
So the boy launched it, and they took off their coats and prepared to take their
seats. The boy suggested that George, who, even in those days, was always the heavy
man of any party, should be number four. George said he should be happy to be number
four, and promptly stepped into bow's place, and sat down with his back to the stern.
They got him into his proper position at last, and then the others followed.
A particularly nervous boy was appointed cox, and the steering principle explained
to him by Joskins. Joskins himself took stroke. He told the others that it was simple
enough; all they had to do was to follow him.
They said they were ready, and the boy on the landing stage took a boat– hook
and shoved him off.
What then followed George is unable to describe in detail. He has a confused
recollection of having, immediately on starting, received a violent blow in the
small of the back from the butt-end of number five's scull, at the same time that
his own seat seemed to disappear from under him by magic, and leave him sitting
on the boards. He also noticed, as a curious circumstance, that number two was at
the same instant lying on his back at the bottom of the boat, with his legs in the
air, apparently in a fit.
They passed under Kew Bridge, broadside, at the rate of eight miles an hour.
Joskins being the only one who was rowing. George, on recovering his seat, tried
to help him, but, on dipping his oar into the water, it immediately, to his intense
surprise, disappeared under the boat, and nearly took him with it.
And then ''cox'' threw both rudder lines over-board, and burst into tears.
How they got back George never knew, but it took them just forty minutes. A dense
crowd watched the entertainment from Kew Bridge with much interest, and everybody
shouted out to them different directions. Three times they managed to get the boat
back through the arch, and three times they were carried under it again, and every
time ''cox'' looked up and saw the bridge above him he broke out into renewed sobs.
George said he little thought that afternoon that he should ever come to really
Harris is more accustomed to sea rowing than to river work, and says that, as
an exercise, he prefers it. I don't. I remember taking a small boat out at Eastbourne
last summer: I used to do a good deal of sea rowing years ago, and I thought I should
be all right; but I found I had forgotten the art entirely. When one scull was deep
down underneath the water, the other would be flourishing wildly about in the air.
To get a grip of the water with both at the same time I had to stand up. The parade
was crowded with nobility and gentry, and I had to pull past them in this ridiculous
fashion. I landed half-way down the beach, and secured the services of an old boatman
to take me back.
I like to watch an old boatman rowing, especially one who has been hired by the
hour. There is something so beautifully calm and restful about his method. It is
so free from that fretful haste, that vehement striving, that is every day becoming
more and more the bane of nineteenth-century life. He is not for ever straining
himself to pass all the other boats. If another boat overtakes him and passes him
it does not annoy him; as a matter of fact, they all do overtake him and pass him
– all those that are going his way. This would trouble and irritate some people;
the sublime equanimity of the hired boatman under the ordeal affords us a beautiful
lesson against ambition and uppishness.
Plain practical rowing of the get-the-boat-along order is not a very difficult
art to acquire, but it takes a good deal of practice before a man feels comfortable,
when rowing past girls. It is the ''time'' that worries a youngster. ''It's jolly
funny,'' he says, as for the twentieth time within five minutes he disentangles
his sculls from yours; ''I can get on all right when I'm by myself!''