To see two novices try to keep time with one another is very amusing. Bow finds
it impossible to keep pace with stroke, because stroke rows in such an extraordinary
fashion. Stroke is intensely indignant at this, and explains that what he has been
endeavouring to do for the last ten minutes is to adapt his method to bow's limited
capacity. Bow, in turn, then becomes insulted, and requests stroke not to trouble
his head about him (bow), but to devote his mind to setting a sensible stroke.
''Or, shall I take stroke?'' he adds, with the evident idea that that would at
once put the whole matter right.
They splash along for another hundred yards with still moderate success, and
then the whole secret of their trouble bursts upon stroke like a flash of inspiration.
''I tell you what it is: you've got my sculls,'' he cries, turning to bow; ''pass
''Well, do you know, I've been wondering how it was I couldn't get on with these,''
answers bow, quite brightening up, and most willingly assisting in the exchange.
''NOW we shall be all right.''
But they are not Ц not even then. Stroke has to stretch his arms nearly out of
their sockets to reach his sculls now; while bow's pair, at each recovery, hit him
a violent blow in the chest. So they change back again, and come to the conclusion
that the man has given them the wrong set altogether; and over their mutual abuse
of this man they become quite friendly and sympathetic.
George said he had often longed to take to punting for a change. Punting is not
as easy as it looks. As in rowing, you soon learn how to get along and handle the
craft, but it takes long practice before you can do this with dignity and without
getting the water all up your sleeve.
One young man I knew had a very sad accident happen to him the first time he
went punting. He had been getting on so well that he had grown quite cheeky over
the business, and was walking up and down the punt, working his pole with a careless
grace that was quite fascinating to watch. Up he would march to the head of the
punt, plant his pole, and then run along right to the other end, just like an old
punter. Oh! it was grand.
And it would all have gone on being grand if he had not unfortunately, while
looking round to enjoy the scenery, taken just one step more than there was any
necessity for, and walked off the punt altogether. The pole was firmly fixed in
the mud, and he was left clinging to it while the punt drifted away. It was an undignified
position for him. A rude boy on the bank immediately yelled out to a lagging chum
to ''hurry up and see real monkey on a stick.''
I could not go to his assistance, because, as ill-luck would have it, we had
not taken the proper precaution to bring out a spare pole with us. I could only
sit and look at him. His expression as the pole slowly sank with him I shall never
forget; there was so much thought in it.
I watched him gently let down into the water, and saw him scramble out, sad and
wet. I could not help laughing, he looked such a ridiculous figure. I continued
to chuckle to myself about it for some time, and then it was suddenly forced in
upon me that really I had got very little to laugh at when I came to think of it.
Here was I, alone in a punt, without a pole, drifting helplessly down mid-stream
Ц possibly towards a weir.
I began to feel very indignant with my friend for having stepped overboard and
gone off in that way. He might, at all events, have left me the pole.
I drifted on for about a quarter of a mile, and then I came in sight of a fishing-punt
moored in mid-stream, in which sat two old fishermen. They saw me bearing down upon
them, and they called out to me to keep out of their way.
''I can't,'' I shouted back.
''But you don't try,'' they answered.
I explained the matter to them when I got nearer, and they caught me and lent
me a pole. The weir was just fifty yards below. I am glad they happened to be there.
The first time I went punting was in company with three other fellows; they were
going to show me how to do it. We could not all start together, so I said I would
go down first and get out the punt, and then I could potter about and practice a
bit until they came.
I could not get a punt out that afternoon, they were all engaged; so I had nothing
else to do but to sit down on the bank, watching the river, and waiting for my friends.
I had not been sitting there long before my attention became attracted to a man
in a punt who, I noticed with some surprise, wore a jacket and cap exactly like
mine. He was evidently a novice at punting, and his performance was most interesting.
You never knew what was going to happen when he put the pole in; he evidently did
not know himself. Sometimes he shot up stream and sometimes he shot down stream,
and at other times he simply spun round and came up the other side of the pole.
And with every result he seemed equally surprised and annoyed.
The people about the river began to get quite absorbed in him after a while,
and to make bets with one another as to what would be the outcome of his next push.
In the course of time my friends arrived on the opposite bank, and they stopped
and watched him too. His back was towards them, and they only saw his jacket and
cap. From this they immediately jumped to the conclusion that it was I, their beloved
companion, who was making an exhibition of himself, and their delight knew no bounds.
They commenced to chaff him unmercifully.
I did not grasp their mistake at first, and I thought, ''How rude of them to
go on like that, with a perfect stranger, too!'' But before I could call out and
reprove them, the explanation of the matter occurred to me, and I withdrew behind
Oh, how they enjoyed themselves, ridiculing that young man! For five good minutes
they stood there, shouting ribaldry at him, deriding him, mocking him, jeering at
him. They peppered him with stale jokes, they even made a few new ones and threw
at him. They hurled at him all the private family jokes belonging to our set, and
which must have been perfectly unintelligible to him. And then, unable to stand
their brutal jibes any longer, he turned round on them, and they saw his face!
I was glad to notice that they had sufficient decency left in them to look very
foolish. They explained to him that they had thought he was some one they knew.
They said they hoped he would not deem them capable of so insulting any one except
a personal friend of their own.
Of course their having mistaken him for a friend excused it. I remember Harris
telling me once of a bathing experience he had at Boulogne. He was swimming about
there near the beach, when he felt himself suddenly seized by the neck from behind,
and forcibly plunged under water. He struggled violently, but whoever had got hold
of him seemed to be a perfect Hercules in strength, and all his efforts to escape
were unavailing. He had given up kicking, and was trying to turn his thoughts upon
solemn things, when his captor released him.
He regained his feet, and looked round for his would-be murderer. The assassin
was standing close by him, laughing heartily, but the moment he caught sight of
Harris's face, as it emerged from the water, he started back and seemed quite concerned.
''I really beg your pardon,'' he stammered confusedly, ''but I took you for a
friend of mine!''
Harris thought it was lucky for him the man had not mistaken him for a relation,
or he would probably have been drowned outright.
Sailing is a thing that wants knowledge and practice too Ц though, as a boy,
I did not think so. I had an idea it came natural to a body, like rounders and touch.
I knew another boy who held this view likewise, and so, one windy day, we thought
we would try the sport. We were stopping down at Yarmouth, and we decided we would
go for a trip up the Yare. We hired a sailing boat at the yard by the bridge, and
started off. ''It's rather a rough day,'' said the man to us, as we put off: ''better
take in a reef and luff sharp when you get round the bend.''
We said we would make a point of it, and left him with a cheery ''GoodЦ morning,''
wondering to ourselves how you ''luffed,'' and where we were to get a ''reef'' from,
and what we were to do with it when we had got it.
We rowed until we were out of sight of the town, and then, with a wide stretch
of water in front of us, and the wind blowing a perfect hurricane across it, we
felt that the time had come to commence operations.
Hector Ц I think that was his name Ц went on pulling while I unrolled the sail.
It seemed a complicated job, but I accomplished it at length, and then came the
question, which was the top end?
By a sort of natural instinct, we, of course, eventually decided that the bottom
was the top, and set to work to fix it upside-down. But it was a long time before
we could get it up, either that way or any other way. The impression on the mind
of the sail seemed to be that we were playing at funerals, and that I was the corpse
and itself was the winding-sheet.
When it found that this was not the idea, it hit me over the head with the boom,
and refused to do anything.
''Wet it,'' said Hector; ''drop it over and get it wet.''
He said people in ships always wetted the sails before they put them up. So I
wetted it; but that only made matters worse than they were before. A dry sail clinging
to your legs and wrapping itself round your head is not pleasant, but, when the
sail is sopping wet, it becomes quite vexing.
We did get the thing up at last, the two of us together. We fixed it, not exactly
upside down Ц more sideways like Ц and we tied it up to the mast with the painter,
which we cut off for the purpose.
That the boat did not upset I simply state as a fact. Why it did not upset I
am unable to offer any reason. I have often thought about the matter since, but
I have never succeeded in arriving at any satisfactory explanation of the phenomenon.
Possibly the result may have been brought about by the natural obstinacy of all
things in this world. The boat may possibly have come to the conclusion, judging
from a cursory view of our behaviour, that we had come out for a morning's suicide,
and had thereupon determined to disappoint us. That is the only suggestion I can
By clinging like grim death to the gunwale, we just managed to keep inside the
boat, but it was exhausting work. Hector said that pirates and other seafaring people
generally lashed the rudder to something or other, and hauled in the main top-jib,
during severe squalls, and thought we ought to try to do something of the kind;
but I was for letting her have her head to the wind.
As my advice was by far the easiest to follow, we ended by adopting it, and contrived
to embrace the gunwale and give her her head.
The boat travelled up stream for about a mile at a pace I have never sailed at
since, and don't want to again. Then, at a bend, she heeled over till half her sail
was under water. Then she righted herself by a miracle and flew for a long low bank
of soft mud.
That mud-bank saved us. The boat ploughed its way into the middle of it and then
stuck. Finding that we were once more able to move according to our ideas, instead
of being pitched and thrown about like peas in a bladder, we crept forward, and
cut down the sail.
We had had enough sailing. We did not want to overdo the thing and get a surfeit
of it. We had had a sail Ц a good all-round exciting, interesting sail Ц and now
we thought we would have a row, just for a change like.
We took the sculls and tried to push the boat off the mud, and, in doing so,
we broke one of the sculls. After that we proceeded with great caution, but they
were a wretched old pair, and the second one cracked almost easier than the first,
and left us helpless.
The mud stretched out for about a hundred yards in front of us, and behind us
was the water. The only thing to be done was to sit and wait until someone came
It was not the sort of day to attract people out on the river, and it was three
hours before a soul came in sight. It was an old fisherman who, with immense difficulty,
at last rescued us, and we were towed back in an ignominious fashion to the boat-yard.
What between tipping the man who had brought us home, and paying for the broken
sculls, and for having been out four hours and a half, it cost us a pretty considerable
number of weeks' pocket-money, that sail. But we learned experience, and they say
that is always cheap at any price.
READING. Ц WE ARE TOWED BY STEAM LAUNCH. Ц IRRITATING BEHAVIOUR OF SMALL BOATS.
Ц HOW THEY GET IN THE WAY OF STEAM LAUNCHES. Ц GEORGE AND HARRIS AGAIN SHIRK THEIR
WORK. Ц RATHER A HACKNEYED STORY. Ц STREATLEY AND GORING.
WE came in sight of Reading about eleven. The river is dirty and dismal here.
One does not linger in the neighbourhood of Reading. The town itself is a famous
old place, dating from the dim days of King Ethelred, when the Danes anchored their
warships in the Kennet, and started from Reading to ravage all the land of Wessex;
and here Ethelred and his brother Alfred fought and defeated them, Ethelred doing
the praying and Alfred the fighting.
In later years, Reading seems to have been regarded as a handy place to run down
to, when matters were becoming unpleasant in London. Parliament generally rushed
off to Reading whenever there was a plague on at Westminster; and, in 1625, the
Law followed suit, and all the courts were held at Reading. It must have been worth
while having a mere ordinary plague now and then in London to get rid of both the
lawyers and the Parliament.
During the Parliamentary struggle, Reading was besieged by the Earl of Essex,
and, a quarter of a century later, the Prince of Orange routed King James's troops
Henry I. lies buried at Reading, in the Benedictine abbey founded by him there,
the ruins of which may still be seen; and, in this same abbey, great John of Gaunt
was married to the Lady Blanche.