“Big enough for me. But the country’s well enough to play in. I say, Mr. Christopher, I’ve been thinking, we may not find any boats. It’s early.”
“Oh, I’ve seen to that,” said Christopher with the faintest suspicion of lordliness in his voice. “I wrote to the man I know at Maidenhead to have a boat ready—a good one.”
Sam grinned. “My, what a head-piece we’ve got, to be sure.”
The other flushed a little. “It was really Cæsar who suggested it,” he owned.
Sam had never been down that line before, so Christopher pointed out the matters of interest. They found their boat ready at Maidenhead, bestowed their coats in the bow and settled themselves. Christopher insisted on Sam’s rowing stroke. Sam thought politeness obliged him to refuse, but he ultimately gave in. He retrieved the little error in manners by handling his oar in a masterly way. “Stroke shaping well,” Christopher heard the boatman say as they went off.
The wind on the river was cold enough and, in spite of the bright sun, cut through them. But half an hour’s steady pulling brought them into a glow and mood to enjoy themselves. Christopher called for a rest. Sam looked over his shoulder.
“Tired?”
“No,” responded the other, laughing, “but we didn’t come down just to row ‘eyes in boat’; I want to look at the world.”
“Nothing but green fields and trees and cows.”
“I like cows.”