“It’s all very well to put it out of bounds for the kids,” said Dunstable, firmly, “but when it comes to Us—why, I never heard of such a thing.”
Linton gave it as his opinion that such conduct was quite in a class of its own as regarded cool cheek.
“It fairly sneaks,” said Linton, with forced calm, “the Garibaldi.”
“Kids,” proceeded Dunstable, judicially, “are idiots, and can’t be expected to behave themselves downtown. Put the show out of bounds to them if you like. But We—”
“We!” echoed Linton.
“The fact is,” said Dunstable, “it’s a beastly nuisance, but we shall have to go downtown and up the river just to assert ourselves. We can’t have the thin end of the wedge coming and spoiling our liberties. We may as well chuck life altogether if we aren’t able to go to the town whenever we like.”
“And Albert will be pining away,” added Linton.
“Hullo, young gentlemen,” said the town boatman, when they presented themselves to him, “what can I do for you?”
“I know it seems strange,” said Dunstable, “but we want a boat. We are the Downtrodden British Schoolboys’ League for Demanding Liberty and seeing that We Get It. Have you a boat?”
The man said he believed he had a boat. In fact, now that he came to think of it, he rather fancied he had one or two. He proceeded to get one ready, and the two martyrs to the cause stepped in.
Dunstable settled himself in the stern, and collected the rudder-lines.
“Hullo,” said Linton, “aren’t you going to row?”
“It may be only my foolish fancy,” replied Dunstable, “but I rather think you’re going to do that. I’ll steer.”
“Beastly slacker,” said Linton. “Anyhow, how far are we going? I’m not going to pull all night.”
“If you row for about half an hour without exerting yourself—and I can trust you not to do that—and then look to your left, you’ll see a certain hostelry, if it hasn’t moved since I was last there. It’s called the ‘Blue Boar.’ We will have tea there, and then I’ll pull gently back, and that will end the programme.”
“Except being caught in the town by half the masters,” said Linton. “Still, I’m not grumbling. This had to be done. Ready?”
“Not just yet,” said Dunstable, looking past Linton and up the landing-stage. “Wait just one second. Here are some friends of ours.”
Linton looked over his shoulder.
“Albert!” he cried.
“And the blighter in the bowler who struck me divers blows in sundry places. Ah, they’ve sighted us.”
“What are you going to do? We can’t have another scrap with them.”
“Far from it,” said Dunstable gently. “Hullo, Albert. And my friend in the moth-eaten bowler! This is well met.”
“You come out here,” said Albert, pausing on the brink.
“Why?” asked Dunstable.
“You see what you’ll get.”
“But we don’t want to see what we’ll get. You’ve got such a narrow mind, Albert—may I call you Bertie? You seem to think that nobody has any pleasures except vulgar brawls. We are going to row up river, and think beautiful thoughts.”
Albert was measuring with his eye the distance between the boat and landing-stage. It was not far. A sudden spring. …
“If you want a fight, go up to the school and ask for Mr. Drummond. He’s the gentleman who sent you to hospital last time. Any time you’re passing, I’m sure he’d—”
Albert leaped.
But Linton had had him under observation, and, as he sprung, pushed vigorously with his oar. The gap between boat and shore widened in an instant, and Albert, failing to obtain a foothold on the boat, fell back, with a splash that sent a cascade over his friend and the boatman, into three feet of muddy water. By the time he had scrambled out, his enemies were moving pensively upstream.
The boatman was annoyed.
“Makin’ me wet and spoilin’ my paint—what yer mean by it?”
“Me and my friend here we want a boat,” said Albert, ignoring the main issue.
“Want a boat! Then you’ll not get a boat. Spoil my cushions, too, would you? What next, I wonder! You go to Smith and ask him for a boat. Perhaps he ain’t so particular about having his cushions—”
“Orl right,” said Albert, “orl right.”
Mr. Smith proved more complaisant, and a quarter of an hour after Dunstable and Linton had disappeared, Albert and his friend were on the water. Moist outside, Albert burned with a desire for Revenge. He meant to follow his men till he found them. It almost seemed as if there would be a repetition of the naval battle which had caused the town to be put out of bounds. Albert was a quick-tempered youth, and he had swallowed fully a pint of Severn water.
Dunstable and Linton sat for some time in the oak parlour of the “Blue Boar.” It was late when they went out. As they reached the water’s edge Linton uttered a cry of consternation.
“What’s up?” asked Dunstable. “I wish you wouldn’t do that so suddenly. It gives me a start. Do you feel bad?”
“Great Scott! it’s gone.”
“The pain?”
“Our boat. I tied it up to this post.”
“You can’t have done. What’s that boat over there! That looks like ours.”
“No, it isn’t. That was there when we came. I noticed it. I tied ours up here, to this post.”
“This is a shade awkward,” said Dunstable thoughtfully. “You must have tied it up jolly rottenly. It must have slipped away and gone downstream. This is where we find ourselves in the cart. Right among the ribstons, by Jove. I feel like that Frenchman in the story, who lost
