Again he repeated the question—with a deprecatory smile, as if he already regretted his outburst.
“Is it a punt ye're wantin', sor?”
“Yes—and a man to pole it and look after me while I paint. I had old Norris for the past few years, but I hear he's gone back to gardening. Will you have time with your other work?”
“Time! I'll chuck my job if I don't.”
“No,—you can do both,—Norris did. You can pole me out to where I want to work; bring me my lunch when you have yours, and come for me at night. You weren't here two years ago—were you?”
“No—I was with General French. Got this clip outside Kimberly—” and he touched his ear. “Been all my life on the river—Maidenhead and Bourne's End mostly—and so when my time was up I come home and the boss here put me on.”
“A soldier! I thought so. I see now why you got mad. Wonder you didn't throw that chap into the river.” I am a crank on the happiness one gets from the giving of tips—and a half-penny man is the rock bottom of meanness.
His face straightened.
“Well, we can't do that, sor—we can't never talk back. Got to grin and bear it or lose yer job. Learned that in the Hussahs. I didn't care for his money—maybe it was the way he did it that set me goin'—as if I was—Well—let it go! And it's a punt ye want?—Yes, sor—come and pick it out.”
After that it was plain sailing—or punting. The picture of that London cad sprawling in the water, which my approval had created in his mind, had done it. And it was early and late too (there were few visitors that month); down by the Weir below the lock as far as Cliveden; up the backwater to the Mill—William stretched beside me while I worked, or pulling back and forth when a cool bottle—beer, of course—or a kettle and an alcohol lamp would add to my comfort.