chapter3_page-47-67

Chapter 3

I woke at 6 the next morning and found George awake too.

We turned around and tried to go back to sleep.

But we could not.

If there had been a reason to get up early, we would have fallen asleep and slept till ten.

But of course, as there was no necessity for getting up early, we could not sleep more than

five minutes.

George said the same kind of thing happened to him a few years ago, when he was staying

in the house of someone called Mrs. Gippings.

He said his watch went wrong one evening and stopped at a quarter past eight.

He did not know this at the time because he forgot to wind it up when he went to bed.

He hung up the watch over his pillow without taking a look at it.

It was in the winter when this happened, very near the shortest day, and there had been

a week of fog to make things worse.

So it was still very dark when George woke up in the morning.

He reached up to take down his watch.

It was a quarter past eight.

Good heavens, exclaimed George.

I have to be in the city by nine.

Why didn't somebody call me?

He jumped out of bed, had a cold bath because there was no time to prepare hot water, dressed

and shaved.

He took another look at the watch.

George does not know if it was because he had shaken the watch, but it had started now

and pointed to twenty minutes to nine.

George ran downstairs.

In the sitting -room, all was dark and silent.

There was no fire, no breakfast.

George was mad at Mrs. Gippings and decided to tell her what he thought of her when he came

home in the evening.

Hurridly, he put on his coat and hat, grabbed his umbrella, and went to the front door.

The door was not even unlocked.

George swore at Mrs. Gippings and called her a lazy old woman and ran out.

He ran hard for a quarter of a mile, and then he realized that there were very few people

outside and the shops were still closed.

It was certainly a very dark and foggy morning, but it was unusual to stop all business because

of this.

He had to go to work.

Why should other people stay in bed because it was dark and foggy?

Finally, he reached Holborn.

Not one shop was open.

Not one bus was to be seen.

There were three men on the street.

One was a policeman.

George took out his watch and looked at it.

It was five minutes to nine.

He stood still and counted his heartbeat.

He bent down and felt his legs.

Then, with the watch in his hands, he went to the policeman and asked if he knew what

time it was.

The time?

Said the man, looking at George with suspicion.

If you listen, you will hear it strike.

George listened, and a neighborhood clock struck three.

But it's only struck three times, said George in an injured tone.

Well, how many did you want it to go, asked the policeman?

Well, nine, said George, showing his watch.

Do you know where you live?

Asked the policeman severely.

George gave the address.

Oh, that's where it is, is it?

Replied the man.

Well, you take my advice and go there and take that watch of yours with you.

So George went back home.

When he got in, he decided to undress and go to bed again.

But when he thought of having to wash and dress again in the morning, he decided he would

not.

He would sleep in the armchair instead.

But he could not fall asleep.

He never felt more wakeful in his life.

He lit the lamp and got out the chessboard and played a game of chess by himself.

Then he tried to read.

He did not like it, so he put on his coat again and went out for a walk.

It was horribly lonesome and miserable outside.

All the policemen he met looked at him with suspicion and turned their lanterns on and

followed him around.

This had such an effect on him that he began to feel as if he had done something wrong.

He began to walk guiltily along the side streets and hide in the dark doorways when he heard

a policeman approaching.

Of course, this behavior made the police even more suspicious and they would come and

come out of a doorway and ask him what he was doing there.

Nothing.

I'm just taking a walk, he would say.

It was then four o 'clock in the morning.

They looked as though they did not believe him, and two officers took him home to see

if he really lived where he had said he lived.

They saw him go in with his key and then stayed outside to watch the house.

He thought about lighting a fire to make himself breakfast to pass away the time.

But he kept dropping things and it made such a noise that he was afraid it would wake

Mrs. Gippings up.

She would think it was a burglar and open the window and shout,

"'Police!' and then those two detectives would rush in and handcuff him."

He was in a terribly nervous state by this time and he imagined a trial,

how he would be trying to explain the facts to the jury and how no one would believe him.

He would be sentenced to twenty years and his mother would die of a broken heart.

So he gave up trying to prepare breakfast and wrapped himself up in his coat,

sat in an armchair until Mrs. Gippings came down at seven.

Ever since that day he had never got up too early in the morning.

We had been sitting wrapped up in our rugs while George told me this story.

When he finished I decided to wake Harris up.

I poked him with an oar a few times.

He woke up with the third push.

He turned over on the other side and said he would get up in a minute.

He had forgotten that he was in the boat and he sat up suddenly,

sending Montmorrancy, who had been sleeping on his chest right across the boat.

Then we pulled up the canvas and poked our heads out over one side and looked down at the river.

The plan was to get up early in the morning, jump into the river and enjoy a swim.

Somehow, now the idea seemed less attractive.

The water looked damp and chilly and the wind felt cold.

Well, who's going to be in first asked Harris at last?

There was no rush.

George showed what he intended to do by going into the boat and putting on his socks.

Montmorrancy howled as if the thought of going into the river gave him pain.

Harris said it would be difficult to get into the boat again, went back and started looking for his trousers.

I did not want to give up, but I did not enjoy the idea of jumping in the water either.

I decided to go down to the edge and just throw some water over myself,

so I took a towel and walked to the bank and cautiously moved along the branch of a tree

and dipped my feet into the water.

The water was very cold.

The wind cut like a knife.

I thought I would not throw the water over myself after all.

I would go back to the boat and dress, and as I turned to do so, the branch broke.

The towel and I fell in together with a huge splash.

Before I knew it, I was in the middle of the Thames with a gallon of water inside me.

Good Lord, Jay's gone in, I heard Harris say, as I came to the surface.

I didn't think he'd have the courage to do it, did you?

Is it all right, asked George?

Lovely, I answered.

You're crazy not to come in.

I wouldn't have missed this.

Why won't you try it?

But I could not persuade them.

That morning, quite an amusing thing happened as I was dressing.

I was very cold when I got back into the boat, and in my hurry to put my shirt on,

I accidentally dropped it into the water.

It made me very angry, especially when George began to laugh.

I could see nothing to laugh at and told George so, but he only laughed more.

I never saw a man laugh so much.

I got really mad at him and told him what a brainless fool he was, which made him roar even louder.

And then, just as I was pulling out the shirt, I noticed that it was not my shirt, but George's.

I found the situation funny for the first time and began to laugh.

And the more I looked from George's shirt to George, the harder I laughed.

I laughed so much that I had to drop the shirt into the water again.

Aren't you going to get it out, asked George?

I could not answer him for a while, because I was laughing so much.

But at last I managed to reply.

It's not my shirt, it's yours.

I never saw a man's face change from happy to serious so quickly in all my life.

What?

He yelled.

You silly donkey.

Why can't you be more careful?

Why don't you go and dress on the bank?

You shouldn't be on a boat.

I tried to make him see the fun of the thing, but he could not.

George is quite unable to see a joke sometimes.

Harris suggested having scrambled eggs for breakfast.

He said he would cook them.

He said he was very good at doing scrambled eggs, and he often did them at picnics.

He said he was quite famous for them, and people who tasted his scrambled eggs once never cared for any other food afterwards.

They yearned for his scrambled eggs and died when they could not get them.

Hearing about scrambled eggs made our mouths water.

So we gave him the stove and the frying pan and all the eggs that had not been broken.

We begged him to begin.

He had some trouble in breaking the eggs.

Well, not breaking them, but getting them into the pan and not on his trousers.

At last, he got half a dozen in the pan and sat down by the side of the stove and stirred them with a fork.

It seemed to be a difficult task as far as we could see.

Whenever he went near the pan, he burned himself, and then he would drop everything and dance around the stove, shaking his fingers and swearing.

Every time George and I turned around to look at him, we saw him doing this.

We did not know what scrambled eggs were, and we thought it must be some Native American dish that required dances and magic words for cooking.

Montmorrancy went and put his nose over the pan, and the butter jumped up and burned him, and then he began dancing and swearing, too.

It was one of the most interesting and exciting things I have ever witnessed.

George and I were quite sorry when it was over.

The result was not entirely the success that Harris was expecting.

Six eggs had gone into the frying pan, and all that came out was a teaspoonful of burnt and unattractive mixture.

Harris said it was the fault of the frying pan.

By the time we finished breakfast, the sun had got more powerful, and the wind had dropped.

It was a lovely morning.

Little was in sight to remind us of the nineteenth century.

As we looked out on the river in the morning sunlight, we could almost imagine that it was that famous June morning of 1215.

We, English farmers' sons, were waiting there to witness a page of history.

It was the day when King John was forced to sign his name to the Magna Carta.

It is a fine summer morning, sunny, soft, and still.

King John has slept at Duncroft Hall.

The day before, large groups of armed men on horses have marched through the town of stains.

Groups of knights and squires have ridden on horses, dusty and exhausted from the long journey.

In the evening, the town's people's doors are knocked to find food and lodgings for the groups of soldiers.

In the marketplace, more of the troops gather round the campfire, eating, drinking, singing, and quarreling.

The children of the town secretly watch them, wondering.

Out in the fields, the faint lights of more distant camps are seen.

And so, the night passes over this valley of the Thames, and the morning arrives.

It is the morning of the great day.

On the road that winds along the river's bank from stains, a group of men march towards us.

They stop a hundred yards above us and wait.

Fresh groups and bands of armed men keep marching up along the road until, as far as one's eye can reach,

the road seems thick, with nothing but steel helmets and breastplates.

Shouting horsemen gallop from group to group, and little flags are waving lazily in the warm breeze.

Up the hill, just opposite, the town's people are gathered.

Nobody is quite sure what this activity is about, but each person has a different version of the great event that they have come to see.

Some say that today's event will bring much good to all people,

but the old men shake their heads, for they have heard such tales before.

The river is full of small boats that come as near as they can to the boats which will carry King John to where the Magna Carta waits for his signature.

It is noon now, and everyone has been waiting patiently for many hours.

Far down the road, a little cloud of dust is seen, and it comes nearer and grows larger,

and the noise of the horse's feet grows louder.

Then there appears a wonderful line of brightly dressed lords and knights.

In front and behind and on either side the lords armed followers ride, and in the middle of them is King John.

He rides to where the boats wait, and the great lords step forward to meet him.

He greets them with a smile and laughs as though he had been invited to some celebration in his honor.

As he gets off his horse he glances hurriedly from his own French soldiers to the lords men that surround him.

Is it too late? He asks himself.

One strike at the horseman at his side, one cried to his French officers, one attack on the lords' lines, and he could escape,

and these rebellious lords will be sorry that they dared to oppose his plans.

But the king is not so brave.

If he had been braver he could have stopped this, and the cup of freedom might have been taken away from England's lips.

King John leaves his horse and takes a seat in the royal boat.

The lords follow with their hands on their swords.

Slowly the heavy boats leave the shore of runny mead.

Slowly they move to the little island that from this day will have the name of Magna Carta Island.

King John steps on the shore, and we wait in breathless silence.

I was sitting on the bank imagining this scene to myself when George brought me back to the present day.

If you are rested, perhaps you could help with the washing up, he said.

Thus I returned from the glorious days of the past to the ordinary present.

I slid down into the boat and cleaned the frying pan with a stick and some grass and polished it with George's wet shirt.

We went over to Magna Carta Island and had a look at the historic stone.

It is said that the document was signed on this stone. It stands in a cottage there.

Then we returned to the boat and continued our journey.

From the island to old Windsor, the river is delightful, a shady road with a few little cottages.

After you pass old Windsor, the river is somewhat uninteresting until you approach Bhavani.

George and I towed the boat as far as Monkey Island where we stopped and had lunch.

We decided to eat the cold beef for lunch, but then we realized that we had forgotten to bring mustard.

I don't think I ever felt I wanted mustard as badly as I did then.

I don't care for mustard usually, and I seldom have it, but I would have given anything for it then.

Harris said that he would have given everything for mustard too.

It would have been a good thing for anybody to come up with a can of mustard at that moment.

He would have been given anything.

It created a gloomy atmosphere in the boat, not having any mustard.

We ate our beef in silence.

Life seemed empty and uninteresting.

We thought of the happy days of childhood and side.

However, we became slightly more cheerful when we had the apple tart.

And when George took out a tin of pineapple from the bottom of the basket

and rolled it into the middle of the boat, we felt that life was worth living after all.

We are very fond of pineapple, all three of us.

We looked at the picture on the tin.

We thought of the juice.

We smiled at one another.

And Harris got a spoon ready.

Then we looked for the tin opener.

We pulled out everything in the basket.

We pulled out everything in the bags.

We pulled up the boards at the bottom of the boat.

We took everything out onto the bank and shook it.

There was no tin opener.

Then Harris tried to open the tin with a pocket knife and broke the knife and cut himself badly.

George tried a pair of scissors and the scissors flew up and nearly got his eye.

While they were taking care of their wounds, I tried to make a hole in the tin with the pointed end of a boat hook.

And the boat hook slipped and threw me out between the boat and the bank into two feet of muddy water.

The tin rolled over and broke a teacup.

Then we all got mad.

We took that tin out on the bank and Harris went up into a field and got a big sharp stone.

I went back into the boat and brought out the mast.

George held the tin and Harris held the sharp end of the stone against the top of it,

and I raised the mast high up in the air and brought it down with all my strength.

It was George's straw hat that saved his life that day.

He keeps that hat now, what's left of it,

and on winter evenings when we light our pipes and tell each other the dangers that we have passed through,

George brings it down and shows it.

And the exciting story is told again, with exaggerations added every time.

After that, I took the tin and hammered at it with the mast till I was exhausted and discouraged.

Then Harris took it, we beat it flat, we beat it square, we beat it into every shape possible,

but we could not make a hole in it.

Then George took it and knocked it into such a strange, weird, horrible shape that he got frightened

and threw away the mast.

Then we all sat around the tin on the grass and looked at it.

The tin was bent into the shape of a mocking smile, and it drove us furious.

Harris took the thing and threw it far into the middle of the river,

and as it sank we cursed it.

Then we got into the boat and rode away from the spot,

and did not stop until we reached Maidenhead.

We went through Maidenhead quickly, and then slowed down as we went through the lovely springtime scenery in Cleveland in Woods.

We had tea, and it turned slowly into evening.

A stiff little wind had risen.

Surprisingly, it was behind us, helping us to go faster.

Usually on the river the wind is against you wherever you go.

It is against you in the morning when you set off, and you think it is going to be easy coming back in the evening.

Then, in the afternoon, the wind turns around, and you have to pull hard against it all the way back home.

But when you forget to take the sail, then the wind is always in your favor both ways.

This evening, however, they had made a mistake and had put the wind behind us instead of in our face.

We got the sail up, and it filled out and spread, and the boat flew.

I steered.

There is no more thrilling experience than sailing.

The wings of rushing wind carry you forward.

You don't know where.

You are no longer the slow, walking, insignificant thing made of clay.

You are part of nature.

Nature's arms are around you, raising you up against her heart.

Your limbs grow light.

The voices of the air are singing to you.

The earth seems far away and little.

And the clouds so close above your head are brothers, and you stretch out your arms to them.

We had the river to ourselves except for a fishing boat anchored in midstream far away in the distance.

Three fishermen sat in it.

We passed the wooded banks.

No one spoke.

I was steering.

As we came nearer, we could see that the three fishermen were serious old men.

They sat on three chairs in the boat and watched their fishing lines.

The red sunset threw a magic light on the water and turned the woods into a red color.

It was an hour of deep beauty.

We seemed like the knights in an old story, sailing across some magic lake into the twilight,

into the great lake of the sunset.

We did not go into the great lake of the sunset.

We went straight into the boat with the three old fishermen.

We did not know what happened first, because the sail blocked our view.

But from the bad language that came up, we concluded that we had come into the neighborhood of human beings.

Harris pulled the sail down, and then we saw what had happened.

We had knocked the three old gentlemen out of their chairs into the heap of fish on the floor of the boat.

They were now trying to get up and pick the fish off themselves.

They cursed us as they did so.

Harris told them they should be grateful for a little excitement.

He also said that he was shocked to hear men their age lose their tempers in this way.

But this did not help much.

George said he would steer after that.

He said that a mind like mine was not fit for steering boats.

It was better to let an ordinary human do the job, before we all got drowned.

He took the lines and brought us up to Marlow.

At Marlow we left the boat by the bridge and went to stay at an inn.

Marlow is one of the most pleasant river centers I know.

It is a lively little town.

It is not very picturesque on the whole, but there are many charming corners to be found in it.

There is lovely country round it too, if you are fond of a walk, and the river itself is very pretty here.

A little higher up the river we reached Hurley Weir.

I have often thought that I could stay a month and still not have enough time to observe the beauty of the scene.

The village of Hurley is five minutes away.

It dates back to the days of the very old kings.

There you will find the remains of Medmanham Abbey,

a religious place where the Cistercian monks lived in the thirteenth century.

They wore tunics and ate no meat, fish or eggs.

They slept on straw.

They spent the day working, reading and praying,

and all over their lives there fell a silence as of death because no one spoke.

They were a brotherhood who lived joyless lives in this sweet spot.

We got up early on Monday morning and went swimming before breakfast.

When we came back, Montmorrancy made a fool of himself.

The only subject on which Montmorrancy and I do not agree is cats.

I like cats.

Montmorrancy does not.

When I meet a cat, I say,

hello kitty and stop and tickle the side of its head.

The cat sticks up its tail, arches its back,

and wipes his nose against my trousers, and everything is peaceful.

When Montmorrancy meets a cat, the whole street knows about it.

I do not blame the dog because I understand that it is his nature.

Fox terriers are born with four times as much wickedness as other dogs are,

and it will take years of patience and effort to improve their character.

I remember being in the lobby of a large London store one day,

and all round me were dogs, waiting for the return of their owners who were shopping inside.

There was a mastiff, one or two collies, a St. Bernard, a few retrievers,

a borehound, a French poodle, a bulldog, two Yorkshire terriers,

and a few dogs about the size of rats.

There they sat, patient, good, and thoughtful.

There was an atmosphere of serious peacefulness in that lobby,

an air of calmness, a gentle sadness.

Then a sweet young lady entered, leading a gentle -looking little fox terrier,

and left him between the bulldog and the poodle.

The dog sat and looked around for a minute.

Then he looked up at the ceiling, and from his expression,

you could tell that he was thinking of his mother.

Then he yawned.

Then he looked round at the other dogs, all silent, serious, and dignified.

He looked at the bulldog, sleeping on his right.

He looked at the poodle, sitting straight and proud on his left.

Then, without a word of warning and for no reason,

he bit that poodle's leg, and a yell of pain rang out.

The fox terrier was pleased with the result of his first experiment,

so he decided to go around and make things livelier.

He jumped on the collie, and the collie woke up and started barking as well.

Then the fox terrier came back to his own place and caught the bulldog by the ear.

The bulldog attacked everything he could reach, including the doorkeeper.

This gave the fox terrier the chance to enjoy a fight with one of the Yorkshire terriers.

Anyone who knows about the nature of dogs can guess that by this time

all the other dogs in the place were now fighting as if their lives depended on the result.

The big dogs fought each other, and the little dogs fought among themselves

and filled up their spare time by biting the legs of the big dogs.

The whole lobby was in perfect chaos.

A crowd gathered in the street outside and was asking who was being murdered.

Men came in with poles and ropes and tried to separate the dogs, and the police was called.

And, in the middle of all this, the sweet young lady returned

and picked up that sweet little dog of hers.

He had the expression of a newborn lamb, kissed him, and asked him if he was all right

and what those monsters had been doing to him.

He looked up into her face with a look that seemed to say,

Oh, I'm so glad you've come to take me away from this awful situation.

She said that the people at the store had no right to allow violent monsters

like those other dogs to be put with respectable people's dogs.

Such is the nature of fox terriers, and I do not blame Montmorrancy

for his tendency to fight with cats.

But that morning he wished he had never started a fight with that cat.

As I said, we were returning from swimming,

and halfway up the street a cat ran out from one of the houses in front of us

and began to cross the road.

Montmorrancy gave a cry of joy, the cry of a warrior who sees his enemy,

and flew after the cat.

His victim was a large black cat.

I never saw a larger cat, nor a worse looking cat.

It had lost half of its tail, one of its ears, and a large portion of his nose.

It was a long, thin animal full of muscles.

It had a calm, contented air.

Montmorrancy ran after that poor cat at the speed of twenty miles per hour,

but the cat did not hurry.

He did not seem to understand that his life was in danger.

He walked quietly on until the dog was within a yard of him,

and then he turned around and sat in the middle of the road.

He looked at Montmorrancy with a gentle, questioning expression.

Yes, you want me?

He seemed to say.

Montmorrancy is not without courage, but there was something about the look of that cat

that would have frozen the blood of the bravest dog.

He stopped suddenly, and looked back at the cat.

Neither spoke, but you could easily imagine the conversation as follows.

The cat.

Can I do anything for you?

Montmorrancy.

No.

No thanks.

The cat.

Don't be afraid of speaking if you really want something.

Montmorrancy.

Backing down the street.

Oh.

No.

Not at all.

Certainly.

Don't trouble yourself.

I -I -I'm afraid I've made a mistake.

I thought I knew you.

Sorry I disturbed you.

The cat.

Not at all.

Quite a pleasure.

Are you sure you don't want anything?

Montmorrancy.

Still backing.

Not at all.

Thanks.

Very kind of you.

Have a good day.

The cat.

Good day.

Then the cat rose and continued walking.

Montmorrancy, his tail between his legs, came back to us and took up his position behind us.

To this day, if you say the word cats to Montmorrancy, he will tremble and look up pitifully at you, as if to say, please don't.

We did our shopping after breakfast and bought enough food for three days.

George said we should buy some vegetables because it was unhealthy not to eat vegetables.

He said they were easy to cook and he would cook them.

So we bought ten pounds of potatoes, a large quantity of peas, and a few cabbages.

We got a beef steak pie and some fruit tarts from the inn, and fruit, cakes, bread and butter, jam, eggs, and other things.

Our departure from Marlowe was a great success.

We had asked the shops to send the things to us immediately.

We waited while the basket was packed and took the shop boy with us.

We went to many shops and followed this system.

As a result, by the time we had finished, we had an excellent collection of boys following us around.

Our final march down the middle of the high street to the river must have been the most impressive sight Marlowe had seen for a long time.

The order of our procession was like this.

Montmorrancy, carrying a stick.

Two horrible looking dogs, friends of Montmorrancy.

George, carrying coats and rugs and smoking a short pipe.

Harris, trying to walk elegantly while carrying a bursting bag in one hand and a bottle of lime juice on the other.

Greengrocers boy and bakers boy with baskets.

Boy from the inn, carrying a basket.

Confectioners boy with a basket.

Long haired dog.

Cheesemongers boy with a basket.

Old man carrying a bag.

Friend of old man with his hands in his pockets.

Fruit shops boy with a basket.

Myself carrying three hats and a pair of boots and trying to look as if I didn't know it.

Six small boys and four stray dogs.

When we got to the landing place, the boatman looked at us.

Let me see, sir.

Was yours a steam launch or a houseboat?

He asked.

We informed him that it was a double rowing boat.

He seemed surprised.