Here was an excellent system by which to avoid heavy losses through overstocking. The Grand Hotel of the Two Hemispheres controlled it to a nicety.
Sixty kilometers still lay between Bosnières and Rouen. The wind which had freshened in the night, was blowing its contrariest, and progress down the river proved slow. A steam-tow came round a bend, the white and green funnel of the tug belching a saffron smoke, which indicated full speed. I got out my thirty meters of rope and waited. I could see the fat red-faced pilot of the steam-tug shaking his head at me in the negative.
“Voulez-vouz me remorquer?” I cried.
“C’est défendu,” he bawled, and warned me off with a gesture.
Photo by F. Berkeley Smith
FEUDAL FORTRESS, LES ANDELYS
But the captain of the last boat, a genial old salt with a blue eye and a scrubby beard, gave me an encouraging wink. The next instant we were abreast of each other. Swish! went the coiled line, and with a half hitch he had it fast around a stanchion. The little boat reared out of the water as the rope straightened taut and I jumped for the rudder.
We were off for Rouen.
As we danced past the town of Les Andelys the captain gathered a small bouquet of mignonette from his cabin garden, crawled to the limit of his great rudder, and with the aid of a boat-hook passed the bouquet to me.