The boy came to a stop opposite, laid down his barrow and wiped the sweat from his brow with a dirty hand.
"Bonjour!" said the boy.
"Bonjour, petit garçon," Stoner replied, proud of his French which is limited to some twenty words.
The boy asked for a cigarette; a souvenir. We told him to proceed on his journey, we were weary of souvenir hunters. The barrow moved on, the wheel creaking rustily and the boy whistled a light-hearted tune. That his request had not been granted did not seem to trouble him.
Two barges, coupled and laden with coal rounded a corner of the canal. They were drawn by five persons, a woman with a very white sunbonnet in front. She was followed by a barefooted youth in khaki tunic, a hunch-backed man with heavy projecting jowl and a hare-lipped youth of seventeen or eighteen. Last on the tug rope was an oldish man with a long white beard parted in the middle and rusty coloured at the tips. A graceful slip of a girl, lithe as a marsh sapling, worked the tiller of the rear barge and she took no notice of the soldiers on the shore or in the water.
"Going to bathe, Stoner?" I asked.
"When the barges go by," he answered and I twitted him on his modesty.
Goliath, six foot three of magnificent bone and muscle was in the canal. Swanking his trudgeon stroke he surged through the dirty water like an excited whale, puffing and blowing. Bill, losing in every stroke, tried to race him, but retired beaten and very happy. The cold water rectified his temper, he was now in a most amiable humour. Pryor was away down the canal on the barge, when he came to the bridge he would dive off and race some of Section 4 boys back to the spot where I was sitting. There is an eternal and friendly rivalry between Sections 3 and 4.
"Stoner, going in?" I asked my comrade, who was standing stark on the bank.
"In a minute," he answered.