“No one to come aboard, sir.”
“You better keep an eye on Mr. Stukeley, Captain Margaret. He may cut up rash.”
“I will. Good-bye, captain. Good luck.”
“We’ll know soon.”
“Got your papers?”
“All correct, sir. Now.” He passed over the side, and shoved off.
Margaret watched the boat pull past, glad of that small diversion. She was a six-oar gig, whale-built, painted dark-blue and white, steering, on state occasions, with a brass-yoked rudder, at other times with an oar. A boy in a white jacket steered her with the yoke-lines, sitting behind Cammock’s back-board.
“Look, Edward,” said Margaret. “How character shows in little things. Look at the style of the rowers. Look at the stroke, bowing his head as he comes aft, and the two midship oars watching their blades. What makes men watch their blades?”
“Weak will. Or vanity. I always do it. A sense of beauty, too. Desire of pleasure. The swirl and the bubbles are beautiful. What do you make of the bow?”
“He’s not got room to pull. The stern-sheets are too roomy.”