The boys, thinking time enough had been fooled away, then made a rush for the punt. This punt was an old derelict, heavy, unwieldy, full of chinks, and boasting of only two crazy poles, called “oars,” or “paddles,” or “sculls,” according to the humor of the wretch who gallanted them. No one could step into this craft without getting wet; and why it was kept there, or what use it was to the community, was unknown; for no one, except a few freckled and grimy street urchins, ever shoved off in it. Perhaps it was kept for them!
The six, however, had urged their way round the wharf in it.
“Come along, Jim!” Steve shouted, seeing that Timor lagged behind.
“Such a dirty boat to get into!” Jim objected. “And I’ve got my good clothes on, too!”
“Come, now, Jim, you and George are altogether too careful of your clothes. If they are so new and good, or so old and rotten, that you can’t go with us, then stay at home. Hurry up, you’ve got to go with us,” and Steve forced him in—an unwilling passenger.
And so the adventurous boys embarked in this dirty and dilapidated craft, with which Time, so to speak, had worked wonders.
“How are we to make the crazy thing go?” Will asked, when fairly afloat, looking around in vain for any motive power.
It is always thus with boys. Not till their own imprudence plunges them into difficulties, do they pause to consider what it all means, and what they had better do. When a boy is small he clambers upon the roof of his father’s barn, enjoys the perspective for one brief moment, and then ruminates as to how he shall get down. His mother sees him, and with tears in her eyes and dismay at her heart, tears out of the house, and exclaims, “Oh, Johnnie, why did you get up there?” Then the little innocent answers stoutly, “Well, ma, I reckoned if I could get up, I could get down again. Now, you jest watch, and I’ll climb down like a spider. Don’t be afraid, ma, it’s nice up here; I can see Mr. Morley’s shed,” (the object which bounds his view.) When older, he “volunteers;” girds on his uniform with swelling heart; breathes the word patriotism with lover-like tenderness,—and then! Ah! then he fears to confront his father.
“Botheration!” cried Stephen, “we’ve left those oars on shore! There they are; behind Reichter’s boat-house. Back her up, boys, and I’ll jump out and get ’em.”