No objection was made to this plan. Lawless succeeded in getting the boat he wished for; it was launched without any misadventure, and we took our places, and began pulling away merrily, with the wind (what little there was) and tide both in our favour.
The morning was beautiful: it was one of those enjoyable days, which sometimes occur in early spring, in which Nature, seeming to overleap at a bound the barrier between winter and summer, gives us a delightful foretaste of the good things she has in store for us. The clear bright sea, its surface just ruffled by a slight breeze from the south-west, sparkled in the sunshine, and fell in diamond showers from our oars as we raised them out of the water, while the calm serenity of the deep blue sky above us appeared, indeed, a fitting emblem of that heaven, in which “the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest”.
The peaceful beauty of the scene seemed to impress even the restless spirits of which our little party was composed, and, by common consent, we ceased rowing, and suffered the boat to drift with the tide, merely pulling a stroke now and then to keep her head in the right direction. After drifting for some twenty minutes or so in the manner I have described Lawless, who never could remain quiet long, dropped the blade of his oar into the water with a splash that made us all start, exclaiming as he did so:—
“Well, this may be very sentimental and romantic, and all that sort of thing, but it doesn't strike me as particularly entertaining. Why, you fellows were all asleep, I believe.”
“Heigho!” exclaimed Oaklands, rousing himself, with a deep sigh, “I was in such a delicious reverie; what a barbarian you are, Lawless! you seem utterly ignorant of the pleasures of the dolce-far-niente.”
“Dolce-far-devilskin!” was the reply, in tones of the greatest contempt. “I would not be as lazy as you are, Oaklands, for any money. You are fitter to lounge about in some old woman's drawing-room, than to handle an oar.” “Well, I don't know,” answered Oaklands, quietly, “but I think I can pull as long as you can.”
"You do, do you?” rejoined Lawless, “it will be odd to me, if you can. I don't think I was stroke-oar in the crack boat at Eton for a year, without knowing how to row a little; what do you say to having a try at once?”
“With all my heart,” replied Oaklands, divesting himself of his waistcoat, braces, and neckcloth—which latter article he braced tightly round his waist—an example speedily followed by Lawless, who exclaimed, as he completed his preparations:—
“Now, you young shavers, pull in your oars, and we'll give you a ride, all free, gratis, for nothing”.
Mullins and I hastened to comply with Lawless's directions, by placing the oars and seating ourselves so as not to interfere with the trim of the boat; while he and Oaklands, each taking a firm grasp of his oar, commenced pulling away in real earnest. They were more evenly matched than may be at first imagined, for Lawless, though much shorter than Oaklands, was very square-built and broad about the shoulders, and his arms, which were unusually long in proportion to his height, presented a remarkable development of muscle, while it was evident, from the manner in which he handled his oar, that he was the more practised rower of the two. The boat, urged by their powerful strokes, appeared to fly through the water, while cliff and headland (we were rowing along shore about half a mile from the beach) came in view and disappeared again like scenes in some moving panorama. We must now have proceeded some miles, yet still the rival champions continued their exertions with unabated energy and a degree of strength that seemed inexhaustible. Greatly interested in the event, I had at first watched the contending parties with anxious attention, but, perceiving that the efforts they were making did not produce any visible effects upon them, and that the struggle was likely to be a protracted one, I took advantage of the opportunity to open a letter from my sister, which I had received just as I was leaving the house. I was sorry to find, on perusing it, that my father had been suffering from an inflammatory attack, brought on by a cold which he had caught in returning from a visit to a sick parishioner, through a pouring rain. A postscript from my mother, however, added that I need not make myself in the least uneasy, as the apothecary assured her that my father was going on as well as possible, and would probably be quite restored in the course of a week or so. On observing the date of the letter I found I ought to have received it the day before. Arguing from this (on the “no-news-being-good-news” system) that I should have heard again if anything had gone wrong, I dismissed the subject from my mind, and was reading Fanny's account of a juvenile party she had been at in the neighbourhood, when my attention was roused by Coleman, who, laying his hand on my shoulder, said: