Three Men in a Boat (To Say Nothing of the Dog), Jerome K. Jerome [best love novels of all time TXT] 📗

George replied he did not know.

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.

“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.

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.

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.

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.

“Oh, look!” they say; “he’s gone right out into the middle.”

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.

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 comes back, 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 on the 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’s all.”

“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 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.

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 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.

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.

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 she 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.

“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.

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 asked hesitatingly, not wishing to offend her.

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.

“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 might have somehow got into the weir stream, and be making for the falls.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The sweet sounds drew nearer, and soon the boat from which they were worked lay alongside us.

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.

“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!”

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.

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 Faust, and got home in time for supper, after all.

Our first night.—Under canvas.—An appeal for help.—Contrariness of tea-kettles, how to overcome.—Supper.—How to feel virtuous.—Wanted! a comfortably-appointed, well-drained desert island, neighbourhood of South Pacific Ocean preferred.—Funny thing that happened to George’s father.—a restless night.

Harris and I began to think that Bell Weir lock must have been done away with after the same manner.  George had towed us up to Staines, and we had taken the boat from there, and it seemed that we were dragging fifty tons after us, and were walking forty miles.  It was