“You’ve come afoot, Captain; an’ it be a longish walk to the town, most o’ the road muddy. Ye’ll let me row you up the river—leastways for a couple o’ miles further? Then ye can take the footpath through Powell’s meadows.”
Roused as from a reverie, the Captain looking out, sees they are nearly up to the boatman’s cottage, which accounts for the proposal thus made. After a little reflection he says in reply:—
“Well, Jack; if it wasn’t that I dislike over-working you—”
“Don’t mention it!” interrupts Jack, “I’ll be only too pleased to take you all the way to the town itself, if ye say the word. It a’nt so late yet, but to leave me plenty of time. Besides, I’ve got to go up to the Ferry anyhow, to get some grocery for mother. I may as well do it in the boat—’deed better than dragglin’ along them roughish roads.”
“In that case I consent. But you must let me take the oars.”
“No, Captain. I’d prefer workin’ ’em myself; if it be all the same to you.”
The Captain does not insist, for in truth he would rather remain at the tiller. Not because he is indisposed for a spell of pulling. Nor is it from disinclination to walk, that he has so readily accepted the waterman’s offer. After reflecting, he would have asked the favour so courteously extended. And for a reason having nothing to do with convenience, for the fear of fatigue; but a purpose which has just shaped itself in his thoughts, suggested by the mention of the Ferry.
It is that he may consider this—be left free to follow the train of conjecture which the incident has interrupted—he yields to the boatman’s wishes, and keeps his seat in the stern.
By a fresh spurt the Mary is carried beyond her mooring-place; as she passes it her owner for an instant feathering his oars and holding up his hat. It is a signal to one he sees there, standing outside in the moonlight—his mother.