The Charcoal-Burners
Next day there was a dead calm, most unfit for war. Captain John turned over on his haybag and looked at the barometer, which was steady. He crawled out of his tent and looked at the sky. It was without a cloud. He went up the lookout post and looked at the lake, which reflected the hills and the woods and the faraway farmhouses on the sides of the hills so closely that, as he found, if you looked at them through your own legs you could really hardly be sure which was real and which was reflection in the water. He went back to the camp and found the others getting up.
“Buck up, Titty,” Roger was saying. “Remember the war’s begun and the Amazons may be here at any minute.”
“There’s no wind,” said Captain John, “and it looks as if it’s going to be like this all day. They’ll never come if there’s no wind. And we can’t try to do anything ourselves. It’s too far to row. Today we needn’t bother about the war. No wind, no war. It’s an awful pity.”
“May I row ashore for the milk with Titty?” asked Roger. “You said we might the first calm day.” If there was to be no war, at least there were plenty of other things to do.
“All right,” said Captain John, “but be careful not to bump her on a stone when you are landing.”
“Of course,” said the able-seaman.
So the able-seaman and the boy paddled Swallow out of harbour and rowed ashore in her. They rowed with one oar each, sitting side by side