After they had watched the match for an hour, Uncle John’s restless nature asserted itself.
“Suppose we go for a pull on the river now?” he suggested.
They got up.
“Let’s just call at the shop,” said Mike. “There ought to be a telegram from Geddington by this time. I wonder how Bob’s got on.”
Apparently Bob had not had a chance yet of distinguishing himself. The telegram read, “Geddington 151 for four. Lunch.”
“Not bad that,” said Mike. “But I believe they’re weak in bowling.”
They walked down the road towards the school landing-stage.
“The worst of a school,” said Uncle John, as he pulled up-stream with strong, unskilful stroke, “is that one isn’t allowed to smoke on the grounds. I badly want a pipe. The next piece of shade that you see, sing out, and we’ll put in there.”
“Pull your left,” said Mike. “That willow’s what you want.”
Uncle John looked over his shoulder, caught a crab, recovered himself, and steered the boat in under the shade of the branches.