It was hot! One of those dry summers when the air seems to quiver with
the heat, and one afternoon, as I was in my old place at the window
watching Shock go to and fro, carrying baskets of what seemed to be
beans, George Day came along.
"I say," he cried, "ask leave to come with us. We've got a
half-holiday."
Just then I saw the bristling shoots on the wall shake, but I paid no
heed, for I was too much interested in my new friend's words.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"Oh, down the meadows! that's the best place, and there's no end of fun
to be had. I'll take a fishing-rod." I went to where my mother was
lying down and asked her consent, receiving a feeble _yes_, and her hand
went up to my neck, to draw me down that she might kiss me.
"Be back in good time," she whispered. "George Day, you said?"
"Yes; his father is something in London, and he goes to the
grammar-school."
"Be back in good time," she whispered again; and getting my cap, I just
caught sight of Shock at the top of the wall as I ran by the window.
"Poor fellow!" I thought, "how he, too, would like a holiday!"
"Here I am," I cried; and feeling as if I had been just released from
some long confinement, I set off with my companion at a sharp run.
We had to call at his house, a large red brick place just at the end of
the village, close to Isleworth church, where the rod was obtained, with
a basket to hold bait, lines, and the fish that we were going to catch;
and soon after we were down where the sleek cows were contentedly lying
about munching, and giving their heads an angry toss now and then to
keep off the flies.
Rich grass, golden butter-cups, bushes and trees whose boughs swept down
towards the ground, swallows and swifts darting here and there, and
beneath the vividly blue sky there was the river like so much damascened
silver, for in those days one never thought about the mud.
I cannot describe the joy I felt in running here and there with my
companion, and a couple of his school-fellows who had preceded us, and
who saluted us as we approached with a shout.
We ran about till we were tired, and then the fishing commenced from the
bank, for the tide was well up, and according to my companion's account
the fish were in plenty.
Perhaps they were, but though bait after bait was placed upon the hook,
and the line thrown out to float along with the current, not a fish was
caught, no vestige of that nerve-titillating tremble of the float--a
bite--was seen.
Every now and then some one struck sharply, trying to make himself
believe that roach or dace had taken the bait, but the movement of the
float was always due to the line dragging the gravelly ground, or the
bait touching one of the many weeds.
The sun was intensely hot, and scorched our backs, and burned our faces
by flashing back from the water, which looked cool and tempting, as it
ran past our feet.
We fished on, sometimes one handling the rod and sometimes the other--
beginning by throwing in the line with whispered words, so as not to
frighten the fish that were evidently not there, and ending by sending
in bait and float with a splash, and with noise and joking.
"There's a big one," some one would cry, and a clod torn out from the
bank, or a stone, would be thrown in amidst bursts of laughter.
"Oh it's not a jolly bit of good," cried one of the boys; "they won't
bite to-day. I'm so thirsty, let's have a drink."
"No, no, don't drink the water," I said; "it isn't good enough."
"What shall we do then--run after the cows for a pen'orth of milk?"
"I say, look there," cried George Day; "the tide's turned. It's running
down. We shall get plenty of fish now."
"Why, there's somebody bathing down below there," cried another of the
boys.
"Yes, and can't he swim!"
"Let's all have a bathe," cried young Day.
"Ah, come on: it will be jolly here. Who's first in?"
I looked on half in amazement, for directly after catching sight of the
head of some lad in the water about a couple of hundred yards below us,
who seemed to be swimming about in the cool water with the greatest
ease, my companions began to throw off caps and jackets, and to untie
and kick off their boots.
"But we haven't got any towels," cried George Day.
"Towels!" cried one of the others; "why, the sun will dry us in five
minutes; come on. What a day for a swim!"
It did look tempting there at the bottom of that green meadow, deep in
grass and with the waving trees to hide us from observation, though
there was not a house within a mile, nor, saving an occasional barge
with a sleepy man hanging over the tiller, a boat to be seen, and as I
watched the actions of my companions, I, for the first time in my life,
felt the desire to imitate them come on me strongly.
They were not long undressing, one kicking off his things anyhow,
another carefully folding them as he took them off, and tucking his
socks inside his boots. But careful and careless alike, five minutes
had not elapsed before to my delight George Day, who was a boy of about
fourteen, ran back a dozen yards from the river's brink and threw up his
arms.
"One, two, three, cock warning!" he shouted, ran by me swiftly, and
plunged into the river with a tremendous splash.
I felt horrified, but the next moment his head reappeared bobbing about,
and he swam along easily and well.
"Oh it's so lovely," he cried. "Come along."
"All right!" cried one of his friends, sitting down on the edge of the
bank, and lowering himself in gently, to stand for a few moments up to
his arm-pits, and then duck his head down twice, rubbing his eyes to get
the water out, and then stooping down and beginning to swim slowly and
laboriously, and with a great deal of puffing.
"Oh, what a cowardly way of getting in!" said the third, who stood on
the bank, hesitating.
"Well, let's see you, then," cried George Day, who was swimming close at
hand. "Jump in."
"Oh, I can't jump in like you do," said the other; "it gives me the
headache."
"Why, you're afraid."
"No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are. Come in, or I'll pull you down."
"There!"
The boy jumped in feet first, and as soon as he came up he struggled to
the bank, and puffed and panted and squeezed the water out of his hair.
"Oh my, isn't it jolly cold!" he cried. "It takes all my breath away."
"Cold!" cried the others; "it's lovely. Here you, Dennison, come in."
"I can't swim," I said, feeling a curious shrinking on the one side,
quite a temptation on the other.
"And you never will," cried George Day, "if you don't try. It's so
easy: look here!"
He swam a few yards with the greatest ease, turned round, and began
swimming slowly back.
"Go on--faster," I cried, for I was interested.
"Can't," he cried, "tide runs so sharp. If I didn't mind I should be
swept right away. Come in. I'll soon teach you."