George is introduced to work—Heathenish instincts of towlines—Ungrateful conduct of a double-sculling skiff—Towers and towed—A use discovered for lovers—Strange disappearance of an elderly lady—Much haste, less speed—Being towed by girls: exciting sensation—The missing lock or the haunted river—Music—Saved!
We made George work, now we had got him. He did not want to work, of course; that goes without saying. He had had a hard time in the City, so he explained. Harris, who is callous in his nature, and not prone to pity, said:
“Ah! and now you are going to have a hard time on the river for a change; change is good for everyone. Out you get!”
He could not in conscience—not even George’s conscience—object, though he did suggest that, perhaps, it would be better for him to stop in the boat, and get tea ready, while Harris and I towed, because getting tea was such a worrying work, and Harris and I looked tired. The only reply we made to this, however, was to pass him over the towline, and he took it, and stepped out.
There is something very strange and unaccountable about a towline. You roll it up with as much patience and care as you would take to fold up a new pair of trousers, and five minutes afterwards, when you pick it up, it is one ghastly, soul-revolting tangle.
I do not wish to be insulting, but I firmly believe that if you took an average towline, and stretched it out straight across the middle of a field, and then turned your back on it for thirty seconds, that, when you looked round again, you would find that it had got itself altogether in a