All the time they were having their meal—the weir-man indicated a tiny arbour; boiled them hot water on the stove in his one-roomed cabin—thought of that tent obsessed their minds. To whom did that tent belong? Why shouldn’t they use that tent? River-inns were hot stuffy places, whereas a tent. . . .
Peter, balancing his third cup of tea on white-flannelled leg, approached the subject diffidently. “I say, Pat,” he began, “have you ever thought of camping-out? Rather jolly—camping-out. That tent reminded me. . . .”
“Oh, but we couldn’t possibly use that tent”—Patricia started packing-up the tea-things—“it’s sure to belong to somebody.”
“One might as well find out.” He rose from the rough bench of the tiny arbour; lounged away; came back in a few minutes, face a little flushed, eyes twinkling.
“The weir-man says that we can use it if we like. ‘The gentleman isn’t coming down till tomorrow evening.’ ”
“What gentleman?” asked Patricia.
“The gentleman who owns the tent, I suppose. I say, Pat, do let’s! It’d be a fearful lark. We could go into the town and buy our rations. . . .”
There and then, they settled the matter. The weir-man produced mattresses, blankets, a rug; unpacked the punt; directed them across the dyked pasturage towards Eynsham. And at Eynsham—which is the least interesting, ugliest village between Gravesend and Cricklade—they bought them eggs, and tinned foods, and a loaf of bread, and butter, and candles, and a huge basket of strawberries which Peter discovered hidden away in the dark of a greengrocer’s shop.
Evening began as they dawdled back, parcel-laden, along the high road; turned off from high road across the dyked pasturage. Now, willows screened the ugly village behind. They could see only the bridge, and the two hillocks beyond, and their tent—their very own tent—marking the river-bank. . . .
“It’ll be a frightful lark,” said Peter.