HOUSEHOLD DUTIES. - LOVE OF WORK. - THE OLD RIVER HAND, WHAT HE DOES ANDWHAT HE TELLS YOU HE HAS DONE. - SCEPTICISM OF THE NEW GENERATION. -EARLY BOATING RECOLLECTIONS. - RAFTING. - GEORGE DOES THE THING IN STYLE.

　　- THE OLD BOATMAN, HIS METHOD. - SO CALM, SO FULL OF PEACE. - THEBEGINNER. - PUNTING. - A SAD ACCIDENT. - PLEASURES OF FRIENDSHIP. -SAILING, MY FIRST EXPERIENCE. - POSSIBLE REASON WHY WE WERE NOT DROWNED.

　　WE woke late the next morning, and, at Harris's earnest desire, partookof a plain breakfast, with "non dainties." Then we cleaned up, and puteverything straight (a continual labour, which was beginning to afford mea pretty clear insight into a question that had often posed me - namely,how a woman with the work of only one house on her hands manages to passaway her time), and, at about ten, set out on what we had determinedshould be a good day's journey.

　　We agreed that we would pull this morning, as a change from towing; andHarris thought the best arrangement would be that George and I shouldscull, and he steer. I did not chime in with this idea at all; I said Ithought Harris would have been showing a more proper spirit if he hadsuggested that he and George should work, and let me rest a bit. Itseemed to me that I was doing more than my fair share of the work on thistrip, 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. Itis not that I object to the work, mind you; I like work: it fascinatesme. I can sit and look at it for hours. I love to keep it by me: theidea of getting rid of it nearly breaks my heart.

　　You cannot give me too much work; to accumulate work has almost become apassion with me: my study is so full of it now, that there is hardly aninch 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 byme now has been in my possession for years and years, and there isn't afinger-mark on it. I take a great pride in my work; I take it down nowand then and dust it. No man keeps his work in a better state ofpreservation than I do.

　　But, though I crave for work, I still like to be fair. I do not ask formore than my proper share.

　　But I get it without asking for it - at least, so it appears to me - andthis worries me.

　　George says he does not think I need trouble myself on the subject. Hethinks it is only my over-scrupulous nature that makes me fear I amhaving more than my due; and that, as a matter of fact, I don't have halfas 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 memberof the crew that he is doing everything. Harris's notion was, that itwas he alone who had been working, and that both George and I had beenimposing upon him. George, on the other hand, ridiculed the idea ofHarris'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 thelabour worth speaking of.

　　He said he had never been out with such a couple of lazily skulks asHarris and I.

　　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 hadstarted 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 halfthe time. Have you ever seen Harris fully awake, except at meal-time?"asked George, addressing me.

　　Truth compelled me to support George. Harris had been very little goodin 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 theirwretched old boat all the way up from Kingston, and for havingsuperintended 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 Georgeshould scull up past Reading, and that I should tow the boat on fromthere. Pulling a heavy boat against a strong stream has few attractionsfor me now. There was a time, long ago, when I used to clamour for thehard work: now I like to give the youngsters a chance.

　　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 theold river hand by the way in which he stretches himself out upon thecushions at the bottom of the boat, and encourages the rowers by tellingthem anecdotes about the marvellous feats he performed last season.

　　"Call what you're doing hard work!" he drawls, between his contentedwhiffs, addressing the two perspiring novices, who have been grindingaway steadily up stream for the last hour and a half; "why, Jim Bifflesand Jack and I, last season, pulled up from Marlow to Goring in oneafternoon - never stopped once. Do you remember that, Jack?"Jack, who has made himself a bed up in the prow of all the rugs and coatshe can collect, and who has been lying there asleep for the last twohours, partially wakes up on being thus appealed to, and recollects allabout the matter, and also remembers that there was an unusually strongstream against them all the way - likewise a stiff wind.

　　"About thirty-four miles, I suppose, it must have been," adds the firstspeaker, 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 offto sleep once more. And the two simple-minded youngsters at the scullsfeel quite proud of being allowed to row such wonderful oarsmen as Jackand 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, andthen come up for more; but the new generation do not seem to have thesimple 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 customarystretchers about the wonderful things we had done all the way up.

　　We gave him all the regular ones - the time-honoured lies that have doneduty up the river with every boating-man for years past - and added sevenentirely original ones that we had invented for ourselves, including areally quite likely story, founded, to a certain extent, on an all buttrue episode, which had actually happened in a modified degree some yearsago to friends of ours - a story that a mere child could have believedwithout injuring itself, much.

　　And that young man mocked at them all, and wanted us to repeat the featsthen and there, and to bet us ten to one that we didn't.

　　We got to chatting about our rowing experiences this morning, and torecounting stories of our first efforts in the art of oarsmanship. Myown earliest boating recollection is of five of us contributingthreepence each and taking out a curiously constructed craft on theRegent's Park lake, drying ourselves subsequently, in the park-keeper'slodge.

　　After that, having acquired a taste for the water, I did a good deal ofrafting in various suburban brickfields - an exercise providing moreinterest and excitement than might be imagined, especially when you arein the middle of the pond and the proprietor of the materials of whichthe raft is constructed suddenly appears on the bank, with a big stick inhis 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 coulddo so without appearing rude, you would rather avoid meeting him; andyour object is, therefore, to get off on the opposite side of the pond towhich he is, and to go home quietly and quickly, pretending not to seehim. He, on the contrary is yearning to take you by the hand, and talkto you.

　　It appears that he knows your father, and is intimately acquainted withyourself, but this does not draw you towards him. He says he'll teachyou to take his boards and make a raft of them; but, seeing that you knowhow to do this pretty well already, the offer, though doubtless kindlymeant, seems a superfluous one on his part, and you are reluctant to puthim to any trouble by accepting it.

　　His anxiety to meet you, however, is proof against all your coolness, andthe energetic manner in which he dodges up and down the pond so as to beon 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 hisadvances; but, when he is of the youthful and long-legged type, a meetingis inevitable. The interview is, however, extremely brief, most of theconversation being on his part, your remarks being mostly of anexclamatory and mono-syllabic order, and as soon as you can tear yourselfaway you do so.

　　I devoted some three months to rafting, and, being then as proficient asthere was any need to be at that branch of the art, I determined to go infor 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 rundown by roughs or swamped by barges; and it also affords plenty ofopportunity for acquiring the most prompt and graceful method of lyingdown flat at the bottom of the boat so as to avoid being chucked out intothe river by passing tow-lines.

　　But it does not give you style. It was not till I came to the Thamesthat I got style. My style of rowing is very much admired now. Peoplesay it is so quaint.

　　George never went near the water until he was sixteen. Then he and eightother gentlemen of about the same age went down in a body to Kew oneSaturday, with the idea of hiring a boat there, and pulling to Richmondand back; one of their number, a shock-headed youth, named Joskins, whohad once or twice taken out a boat on the Serpentine, told them it wasjolly 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 thisdid 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 wasthe 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 todamp their ardour for the outrigger, and showed them two or three verycomfortable-looking boats of the family-party build, but those would notdo at all; the outrigger was the boat they thought they would look bestin.

　　So the boy launched it, and they took off their coats and prepared totake their seats. The boy suggested that George, who, even in thosedays, was always the heavy man of any party, should be number four.

　　George said he should be happy to be number four, and promptly steppedinto bow's place, and sat down with his back to the stern. They got himinto his proper position at last, and then the others followed.

　　A particularly nervous boy was appointed cox, and the steering principleexplained to him by Joskins. Joskins himself took stroke. He told theothers 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 aconfused recollection of having, immediately on starting, received aviolent blow in the small of the back from the butt-end of number five'sscull, at the same time that his own seat seemed to disappear from underhim by magic, and leave him sitting on the boards. He also noticed, as acurious circumstance, that number two was at the same instant lying onhis back at the bottom of the boat, with his legs in the air, apparentlyin a fit.

　　They passed under Kew Bridge, broadside, at the rate of eight miles anhour. Joskins being the only one who was rowing. George, on recoveringhis seat, tried to help him, but, on dipping his oar into the water, itimmediately, to his intense surprise, disappeared under the boat, andnearly 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 muchinterest, and everybody shouted out to them different directions. Threetimes they managed to get the boat back through the arch, and three timesthey were carried under it again, and every time "cox" looked up and sawthe bridge above him he broke out into renewed sobs.

　　George said he little thought that afternoon that he should ever come toreally like boating.

　　Harris is more accustomed to sea rowing than to river work, and saysthat, as an exercise, he prefers it. I don't. I remember taking a smallboat out at Eastbourne last summer: I used to do a good deal of searowing years ago, and I thought I should be all right; but I found I hadforgotten the art entirely. When one scull was deep down underneath thewater, the other would be flourishing wildly about in the air. To get agrip of the water with both at the same time I had to stand up. Theparade was crowded with nobility ............