<h2>CHAPTER IX.</h2>
<p class="gutsumm">George is introduced to work.—Heathenish
instincts of tow-lines.—Ungrateful conduct of a
double-sculling skiff.—Towers and towed.—A use
discovered for lovers.—Strange disappearance of an elderly
lady.—Much haste, less speed.—Being towed by girls:
exciting sensation.—The missing lock or the haunted
river.—Music.—Saved!</p>
<p>We made George work, now we had got him. He did not want
to work, of course; that goes without saying. He had had a
hard time in the City, so he explained. Harris, who is
callous in his nature, and not prone to pity, said:</p>
<p>“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!”</p>
<p>He could not in conscience—not even George’s
conscience—object, though he did suggest that, perhaps, it
would be better for him to stop in the boat, and get tea ready,
while Harris and I towed, because getting tea was such a worrying
work, and Harris and I looked tired. The only reply we made
to this, however, was to pass him over the tow-line, and he took
it, and stepped out.</p>
<p><SPAN href="images/p130b.jpg">
<ANTIMG class='floatleft' alt= "Dog wrapped in tow-line" title= "Dog wrapped in tow-line" src="images/p130s.jpg" /></SPAN>There is something very strange and unaccountable about a
tow-line. You roll it up with as much patience and care as
you would take to fold up a new pair of trousers, and five
minutes afterwards, when you pick it up, it is one ghastly,
soul-revolting tangle.</p>
<p>I do not wish to be insulting, but I firmly believe that if
you took an average tow-line, and stretched it out straight
across the middle of a field, and then turned your back on it for
thirty seconds, that, when you looked round again, you would find
that it had got itself altogether in a heap in the middle of the
field, and had twisted itself up, and tied itself into knots, and
lost its two ends, and become all loops; and it would take you a
good half-hour, sitting down there on the grass and swearing all
the while, to disentangle it again.</p>
<p>That is my opinion of tow-lines in general. Of course,
there may be honourable exceptions; I do not say that there are
not. There may be tow-lines that are a credit to their
profession—conscientious, respectable
tow-lines—tow-lines that do not imagine they are
crochet-work, and try to knit themselves up into antimacassars
the instant they are left to themselves. I say there
<i>may</i> be such tow-lines; I sincerely hope there are.
But I have not met with them.</p>
<p>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 it round slowly and cautiously, and
tied it up in the middle, and folded it in two, and laid it down
gently at the bottom of the boat. Harris had lifted it up
scientifically, and had put it into George’s hand.
George had taken it firmly, and held it away from him, and had
begun to unravel it 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-made door-mat than anything
else.</p>
<p>It is always the same, and the same sort of thing always goes
on in connection with it. The man on the bank, who is
trying to disentangle it, thinks all the fault lies with the man
who rolled it up; and when a man up the river thinks a thing, he
says it.</p>
<p>“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
with it, and lays it out flat on the tow-path, and runs round and
round it, trying to find the end.</p>
<p>On the other hand, the man who wound it up thinks the whole
cause of the muddle rests with the man who is trying to unwind
it.</p>
<p>“It was all right when you took it!” he exclaims
indignantly. “Why don’t you think what you are
doing? You go about things in such a slap-dash style.
You’d get a scaffolding pole entangled <i>you</i>
would!”</p>
<p>And they feel so angry with one another that they would like
to hang each other with the thing. Ten minutes go by, and
the first man gives a yell and goes mad, and dances on the rope,
and tries to pull it straight by seizing 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 the
second man climbs out of the boat and comes to help him, and they
get in each other’s way, and hinder one another. They
both get hold of the same bit of line, and pull at it in opposite
directions, and wonder where it is caught. In the end, they
do get it clear, and then turn round and find that the boat has
drifted off, and is making straight for the weir.</p>
<p>This really happened once to my own knowledge. It was up
by Boveney, one rather windy morning. We were pulling down
stream, and, as we came round the bend, we noticed a couple of
men on the bank. They were looking at each other with as
bewildered and helplessly miserable expression as I have ever
witnessed on any human countenance before or since, and they held
a long tow-line between them. It was clear that something
had happened, so we eased up and asked them what was the
matter.</p>
<p>“Why, our boat’s gone off!” they replied in
an indignant tone. “We just got out to disentangle
the tow-line, and when we looked round, it was gone!”</p>
<p>And they seemed hurt at what they evidently regarded as a mean
and ungrateful act on the part of the boat.</p>
<p>We found the truant for them half a mile further down, held by
some rushes, and we brought it back to them. I bet they did
not give that boat another chance for a week.</p>
<p>I shall never forget the picture of those two men walking up
and down the bank with a tow-line, looking for their boat.</p>
<p>One sees a good many funny incidents up the river in
connection with towing. One of the most common is the sight
of a couple of towers, walking briskly along, deep in an animated
discussion, while the man in the boat, a hundred yards behind
them, is vainly shrieking to them to stop, and making frantic
signs of distress with a scull. Something has gone wrong;
the rudder has come off, or the boat-hook has slipped overboard,
or his hat has dropped into the water and is floating rapidly
down stream.</p>
<p>He calls to them to stop, quite gently and politely at
first.</p>
<p><SPAN href="images/p134b.jpg">
<ANTIMG class='floatleft' alt= "Hat in the water" title= "Hat in the water" src="images/p134s.jpg" /></SPAN>“Hi! stop a minute, will you?” he shouts
cheerily. “I’ve dropped my hat
over-board.”</p>
<p>Then: “Hi! Tom—Dick! can’t you
hear?” not quite so affably this time.</p>
<p>Then: “Hi! Confound <i>you</i>, you dunder-headed
idiots! Hi! stop! Oh you—!”</p>
<p>After that he springs up, and dances about, and roars himself
red in the face, and curses everything he knows. And the
small boys on the bank stop and jeer at him, and pitch stones at
him as he is pulled along past them, at the rate of four miles an
hour, and can’t get out.</p>
<p>Much of this sort of trouble would be saved if those who are
towing would keep remembering that they are towing, and give a
pretty frequent look round to see how their man is getting
on. It is best to let one person tow. When two are
doing it, they get chattering, and forget, and the boat itself,
offering, as it does, but little resistance, is of no real
service in reminding them of the fact.</p>
<p>As an example of how utterly oblivious a pair of towers can be
to their work, George told us, later on in the evening, when we
were discussing the subject after supper, of a very curious
instance.</p>
<p style="text-align: center">
<SPAN href="images/p135b.jpg">
<ANTIMG alt= "Two people towing, boat adrift" title= "Two people towing, boat adrift" src="images/p135s.jpg" /></SPAN></p>
<p>He and three other men, so he said, were sculling a very
heavily laden boat up from Maidenhead one evening, and a little
above Cookham lock they noticed a fellow and a girl, walking
along the towpath, both deep in an apparently interesting and
absorbing conversation. They were carrying a boat-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, no boat was in sight. There must have been a boat
attached to that tow-line at some time or other, that was
certain; but what had become of it, what ghastly fate had
overtaken it, and those who had been left in it, was buried in
mystery. Whatever the accident may have been, however, it
had in no way disturbed the young lady and gentleman, who were
towing. They had the boat-hook and they had the line, and
that seemed to be all that they thought necessary to their
work.</p>
<p>George was about to call out and wake them up, but, at that
moment, a bright idea flashed across him, and he
didn’t. He got the hitcher instead, and reached over,
and drew in the end of the tow-line; and they made a loop in it,
and put it over their mast, and then they tidied up the sculls,
and went and sat down in the stern, and lit their pipes.</p>
<p>And that young man and young woman towed those four hulking
chaps and a heavy boat up to Marlow.</p>
<p>George said he never saw so much thoughtful sadness
concentrated into one glance before, as when, at the lock, that
young couple grasped the idea that, for the last two miles, they
had been towing the wrong boat. George fancied that, if it
had not been for the restraining influence of the sweet woman at
his side, the young man might have given way to violent
language.</p>
<p>The maiden was the first to recover from her surprise, and,
when she did, she clasped her hands, and said, wildly:</p>
<p>“Oh, Henry, then <i>where</i> is auntie?”</p>
<p>“Did they ever recover the old lady?” asked
Harris.</p>
<p>George replied he did not know.</p>
<p>Another example of the dangerous want of sympathy between
tower and towed was witnessed by George and myself once up near
Walton. It was where the tow-path shelves gently down into
the water, and we were camping on the opposite bank, noticing
things in general. By-and-by a small boat came in sight,
towed through the water at a tremendous pace by a powerful barge
horse, on which sat a very small boy. Scattered about the
boat, in dreamy and reposeful attitudes, lay five fellows, the
man who was steering having a particularly restful
appearance.</p>
<p>“I should like to see him pull the wrong line,”
murmured George, as they passed. And at that precise moment
the man did it, and the boat rushed up the bank with a noise like
the ripping up of forty thousand linen sheets. Two men, a
hamper, and three oars immediately left the boat on the larboard
side, and reclined on the bank, and one and a half moments
afterwards, two other men disembarked from the starboard, and sat
down among boat-hooks and sails and carpet-bags and
bottles. The last man went on twenty yards further, and
then got out on his head.</p>
<p>This seemed to sort of lighten the boat, and it went on much
easier, the small boy shouting at the top of his voice, and
urging his steed into a gallop. The fellows sat up and
stared at one another. It was some seconds before they
realised what had happened to them, but, when they did, they
began to shout lustily for the boy to stop. He, however,
was too much occupied with the horse to hear them, and we watched
them, flying after him, until the distance hid them from
view.</p>
<p>I cannot say I was sorry at their mishap. Indeed, I only
wish that all the young fools who have their boats towed in this
fashion—and plenty do—could meet with similar
misfortunes. Besides the risk they run themselves, they
become a danger and an annoyance to every other boat they
pass. Going at the pace they do, it is impossible for them
to get out 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 it catches somebody in the boat, and
either throws them into the water, or cuts their face open.
The best plan is to stand your ground, and be prepared to keep
them off with the butt-end of a mast.</p>
<p>Of all experiences in connection with towing, the most
exciting is being towed by girls. It is a sensation that
nobody ought to miss. It takes three girls to tow always;
two hold the rope, and the other one runs round and round, and
giggles. They generally begin by getting themselves tied
up. They get the line round their legs, and have to sit
down on the path and undo each other, and then they twist it
round their necks, and are nearly strangled. They fix it
straight, however, at last, and start off at a run, pulling the
boat along at quite a dangerous pace. At the end 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
to mid-stream and turns round, before you know what has happened,
or can get hold of a scull. Then they stand up, and are
surprised.</p>
<p>“Oh, look!” they say; “he’s gone right
out into the middle.”</p>
<p><SPAN href="images/p140b.jpg">
<ANTIMG class='floatleft' alt= "Lady pinning up frock" title= "Lady pinning up frock" src="images/p140s.jpg" /></SPAN>They pull on pretty steadily for a bit, after this, and then
it all at once occurs to one of them that she will pin up her
frock, and they ease up for the purpose, and the boat runs
aground.</p>
<p>You jump up, and push it off, and you shout to them not to
stop.</p>
<p>“Yes. What’s the matter?” they shout
back.</p>
<p>“Don’t stop,” you roar.</p>
<p>“Don’t what?”</p>
<p>“Don’t stop—go on—go on!”</p>
<p>“Go back, Emily, and see what it is they want,”
says one; and Emily comes back, and asks what it is.</p>
<p>“What do you want?” she says; “anything
happened?”</p>
<p>“No,” you reply, “it’s all right; only
go on, you know—don’t stop.”</p>
<p>“Why not?”</p>
<p>“Why, we can’t steer, if you keep stopping.
You must keep some way on the boat.”</p>
<p>“Keep some what?”</p>
<p>“Some way—you must keep the boat
moving.”</p>
<p>“Oh, all right, I’ll tell ’em. Are we
doing it all right?”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes, very nicely, indeed, only don’t
stop.”</p>
<p>“It doesn’t seem difficult at all. I thought
it was so hard.”</p>
<p>“Oh, no, it’s simple enough. You want to
keep on steady at it, that’s all.”</p>
<p>“I see. Give me out my red shawl, it’s under
the cushion.”</p>
<p>You find the shawl, and hand it out, and by this time another
one has come back and thinks she will have hers too, and they
take Mary’s on chance, and Mary does not want it, so they
bring it back and have a pocket-comb instead. It is about
twenty minutes before they get off again, and, at the next
corner, they see a cow, and you have to leave the boat to chivy
the cow out of their way.</p>
<p>There is never a dull moment in the boat while girls are
towing it.</p>
<p>George got the line right after a while, and towed us steadily
on to Penton Hook. There we discussed the important
question of camping. We had decided to sleep on board that
night, and we had either to lay up just about there, or go on
past Staines. It seemed early to think about shutting up
then, however, with the sun still in the heavens, and we settled
to push straight on for Runnymead, three and a half miles
further, a quiet wooded part of the river, and where there is
good shelter.</p>
<p>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 it is a weary pull at the end of a long
day. You take no interest in the scenery during these last
few miles. You do not chat and laugh. Every half-mile
you cover seems like two. You can hardly believe you are
only where 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, and still the lock is not in sight, you begin to
seriously fear that somebody must have sneaked it, and run off
with it.</p>
<p>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 we were
pulling down to Goring. It was rather late, and we were
anxious to get in—at least <i>she</i> was anxious to get
in. It was half-past six when we reached Benson’s
lock, and dusk was drawing on, and she began to get excited
then. She said she must be in to supper. I said it
was a thing I felt I wanted to be in at, too; and I drew out a
map I had with me to see exactly how far it was. I saw it
was just a mile and a half to the next
lock—Wallingford—and five on from there to
Cleeve.</p>
<p>“Oh, it’s all right!” I said.
“We’ll be through the next lock before seven, and
then there is only one more;” and I settled down and pulled
steadily away.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“No,” she said; “I can’t see any signs
of a lock.”</p>
<p>“You—you are sure you know a lock, when you do see
one?” I asked hesitatingly, not wishing to offend her.</p>
<p>The question did offend her, however, and she suggested that I
had better look for myself; so I laid down the sculls, and took a
view. The river stretched out straight before us in the
twilight for about a mile; not a ghost of a lock was to be
seen.</p>
<p>“You don’t think we have lost our way, do
you?” asked my companion.</p>
<p>I did not see how that was possible; though, as I suggested,
we might have somehow got into the weir stream, and be making for
the falls.</p>
<p>This idea did not comfort her in the least, and she began to
cry. She said we should both be drowned, and that it was a
judgment on her for coming out with me.</p>
<p>It seemed an excessive punishment, I thought; but my cousin
thought not, and hoped it would all soon be over.</p>
<p>I tried to reassure her, and to make light of the whole
affair. I said that the fact evidently was that I was not
rowing as fast as I fancied I was, but that we should soon reach
the lock now; and I pulled on for another mile.</p>
<p>Then I began to get nervous myself. 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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>The sweet sounds drew nearer, and soon the boat from which
they were worked lay alongside us.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“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!”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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 <i>Faust</i>, and got home
in time for supper, after all.</p>
<p style="text-align: center">
<SPAN href="images/p147b.jpg">
<ANTIMG alt= "People in rowing boat" title= "People in rowing boat" src="images/p147s.jpg" /></SPAN></p>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />