It was Crofter. My instinct at first, especially on the sly reference to my letter of apology, was to fly. On second thoughts it seemed to me wiser to remain. Crofter and Tempest were on better terms now. It would be best to be civil.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Can you steer a boat?”
“A little,” said I.
“Does that mean you can run it into the bank every few yards?”
“Oh no, I’ve often steered Tempest and Pridgin.”
“Come along, then; I’m going to have a spin up to Middle-weir.”
If there was one thing I enjoyed it was steering a boat, and I was not long in accepting the invitation.
Crofter was not conferring a favour on me; only making a convenience of me. So that I was not in any way making up to him. Our relations were that of senior and fag only; and Tempest’s and Pridgin’s warnings to beware when he was particularly friendly (even if it had not already been cancelled by the fact that they now frequently had Crofter in their rooms) could hardly apply now.
For all that, I did not feel quite comfortable, and was glad, on the whole, that the embarkation did not take place under the eyes of my patrons.