“Here, Macey and he had better row now,” cried Distin, suddenly. “Let’s have a rest, Gilmore.”
The exchange of position was soon made, and Macey said, as he rolled up his sleeves over his thin arms, which were in peculiar contrast to his round plump face:—
“Now then: let’s show old pepper-pot what rowing is.”
“No: pull steadily, and don’t show off,” said Vane quietly. “We want to look at the things on the banks.”
“Oh, all right,” cried Macey resignedly; and the sculls dipped together in a quiet, steady, splashless pull, the two lads feathering well, and, with scarcely any exertion, sending the boat along at a fair pace, while Vane, with a naturalist’s eye, noted the different plants on the banks, the birds building in the water-growth—reed sparrows, and bearded tits, and pointing out the moor-hens, coots, and an occasional duck.
All at once, as they cut into a patch of the great dark flat leaves of the yellow water-lily, there was a tremendous swirl in the river just beyond the bows of the boat—one which sent the leaves heaving and falling for some distance ahead.
“Come now, that was a pike,” cried Macey, as he looked at Distin lolling back nonchalantly, with his eyes half-closed.
“Yes; that was a pike, and a big one too,” said Vane. “Let’s see, opposite those three pollard willows in the big horseshoe bend. We’ll come and have a try for him, Aleck, one of these days.”
It was a pleasant row, Macey and Vane keeping the oars for a couple of hours, right on, past another mill, and among the stumps which showed where the old bridge and the side-road once spanned the deeps—a bridge which had gradually decayed away and had never been replaced, as the traffic was so small and there was a good shallow ford a quarter of a mile farther on.
The country was beautifully picturesque up here, and the latter part of their row was by a lovely grove of beeches which grew on a chalk ridge—almost a cliff—at whose foot the clear river ran babbling along.