“Oh, I think I can do that myself,” said Margery. “I am rested now, and I am ever so much obliged to you for getting my oar for me.”
Under almost any circumstances the bishop could smile, and now he smiled at the ridiculousness of the idea of Margery’s rowing that boat back against the current, and with him in it.
“Indeed,” said he, “I must insist. I shall freeze to death if I don’t warm myself by exercise.” So, reaching out his hand, he assisted Margery to the stern, and seating himself in her place, he took the oars, which she had drawn in.
“I don’t see why I could not make the boat go along that way,” said she, as they began to move steadily towards the camp. “I believe I could do it if people would only let me practise by myself; but they always want to show me how, and I hate to have anybody show me how. It is funny,” she continued, “that you seem so very wet all but your collar. That looks as smooth and nice as if it had just come from the laundry.”
The bishop laughed. “That is because it is gutta-percha,” he said, “intended for rough use in camp; but the rest of my habiliments were not intended for wet weather.”
“And you have no hat,” said she. “Doesn’t the sun hurt your head?”
“My head does feel a little warm,” said he, “but I didn’t want to row back to the place where I left my hat. It was not a good landing-place, after all. Besides,” he said to himself, “I never thought of my hat or my shoes.”