That is my opinion of towlines in general. Of course, there may be honourable exceptions; I do not say that there are not. There may be towlines that are a credit to their profession⁠—conscientious, respectable towlines⁠—towlines 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 may be such towlines; I sincerely hope there are. But I have not met with them.

This towline 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 newborn infant; and, before he had unwound a dozen yards, the thing was more like a badly-made doormat than anything else.