For some time Crofter sculled on in silence, giving me directions now and again to keep in the stream, or take the boat well out at the corners—which I considered superfluous. Presently, however, when we were clear of Low Heath he slacked off and began to talk.
“I enjoyed that letter of yours,” said he; “did you write it all yourself?”
“Yes,” said I, feeling and looking very uncomfortable.
“You and Tempest must be quite old chums.”
“Yes.”
“It’s very rough on him, all this business.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” said I, somewhat won over by this admission.
“The worst of it is, it makes the house run down. I expected we were going to do big things this term.”
“It’s not Tempest’s fault if we don’t,” said I.
“Of course not. It’s Jarman’s. Every one knows that. It’s rather a pity Tempest takes it so meekly, though. Fellows will think he’s either afraid or doesn’t care; and neither would be true.”