I
"I don't see the point of it," said Micky, through much imbecile
laughter.
Harold went on rowing. They had spent too long on the sand-dunes,
and now the tide was running out of the estuary strongly. The sun
was setting, the fields on the opposite bank shone bright, and the
farm-house where they were stopping glowed from its upper windows as
though filled to the brim with fire.
"We're going to be carried out to sea," Micky continued. "You'll never
win unless you bust yourself a bit, and you a poor invalid, too. I back
the sea."
They were reaching the central channel, the backbone, as it were,
of the retreating waters. Once past it, the force of the tide would
slacken, and they would have easy going until they beached under the
farm. It was a glorious evening. It had been a most glorious day. They
had rowed out to the dunes at the slack, bathed, raced, eaten, slept,
bathed and raced and eaten again. Micky was in roaring spirits. God had
never thwarted him hitherto, and he could not suppose that they would
really be made late for supper by an ebbing tide. When they came to
the channel, and the boat, which had been slowly edging upstream, hung
motionless among the moving waters, he lost all semblance of sanity,
and shouted:
"It may be that the gulfs will wash us down,
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew."
Harold, who did not care for poetry, only shouted. His spirits also
were roaring, and he neither looked nor felt a poor invalid. Science
had talked to him seriously of late, shaking her head at his sunburnt
body. What should Science know? She had sent him down to the sea to
recruit, and Micky to see that he did not tire himself. Micky had been
a nuisance at first, but common sense had prevailed, as it always does
among the young. A fortnight ago, he would not let the patient handle
an oar. Now he bid him "bust" himself, and Harold took him at his word
and did so. He made himself all will and muscle. He began not to know
where he was. The thrill of the stretcher against his feet, and of the
tide up his arms, merged with his friend's voice towards one nameless
sensation; he was approaching the mystic state that is the athlete's
true though unacknowledged goal: he was beginning to be.
Micky chanted, "One, two--one, two," and tried to help by twitching the
rudder. But Micky had imagination. He looked at the flaming windows and
fancied that the farm was a star and the boat its attendant satellite.
Then the tide was the rushing ether stream of the universe, the
interstellar surge that beats for ever. How jolly! He did not formulate
his joys, after the weary fashion of older people. He was far too happy
to be thankful. "Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth,"
are the words of one who has left his youth behind, and all that Micky
sang was "One, two."
Harold laughed without hearing. Sweat poured off his forehead. He put
on a spurt, as did the tide.
"Wish the doctor could see you," cried Micky.
No answer. Setting his teeth, he went berserk. His ancestors called to
him that it was better to die than to be beaten by the sea. He rowed
with gasps and angry little cries, while the voice of the helmsman
lashed him to fury.
"That's right--one, two--plug it in harder.... Oh, I say, this is a bit
stiff, though. Let's give it up, old man, perhaps."
The gulls were about them now. Some wheeled overhead, others bobbed
past on the furrowed waters. The song of a lark came faintly from the
land, and Micky saw the doctor's trap driving along the road that led
to the farm. He felt ashamed.
"Look here, Harold, you oughtn't to--I oughtn't to have let you. I--I
don't see the point of it."
"Don't you?" said Harold with curious distinctness. "Well, you will
some day," and so saying dropped both oars. The boat spun round at
this, the farm, the trap, the song of the lark vanished, and he fell
heavily against the rowlock. Micky caught at him. He had strained his
heart. Half in the boat and half out of it, he died, a rotten business.