"Should you not be surprised? Indeed. Think of that now!"
This remark of mine seemed to rouse the gentleman's ire. I do not know why. He became personal.
"I've seen better blokes nor you sold down our street two for three ha'pence, with a plate o' whelks thrown in--long-faced lardy!"
"Go a'ead, Bill, never mind 'im!"
"'Is mother don't know 'e's out!"
This from his two friends in the bow. Bill went "a'ead." He thrust his sculls into the stream, or meant to, and pulled with all his might, and caught a crab, and went backwards on to the twain in the prow. It was a marvel the craft did not go over. The ladies screamed, the gentlemen struggled, but there is a providence which attends on fools, and the last I saw of them, Bill, having another row with the sculls, was starting in pursuit of his top hat, which floated on the shining waters.
This sort of thing was doing me good. Ordinarily I should have resented Richmond emulating Hampstead Heath on a Bank Holiday; but, things being as they were, the position gave my nervous system just that fillip it required. I felt that if I could only have a row royal with some half-dozen of those beanfeasters--a good old-fashioned shindy--they would enjoy themselves and I should, and I should go back to dream dreams with a sound mind in a sound body, even though the latter was ornamented by a bruise or two.
I had that trifling argument, dear me, yes. Shades of my sires! what displays of oarsmanship I saw that afternoon.
"I say, matey, give us 'old of that there oar!"
The request came from an individual who formed one of a crew of four, with the usual eight or ten passengers, and who was looking with a certain amount of longing at a scull which was drifting on the stream towards me.