while a woman, leaning out of her kitchen window on the bridge, strewed apple peelings impartially upon the soldiers and the raging flood: apparently this passage was quite usual. But Tobias was unable to repress his emotion entirely, and he said, ‘That is a surprising current, sir. That is a very surprising piece of water, indeed.’
‘I thought you was surprised,’ said Ransome, with a grin; and the waterman closed one eye.
‘I was never so frightened before,’ said Tobias, ‘and I find that my heart is still beating violently.’
‘Why, it’s a question of use,’ said Ransome, wishing that his companion would be a little less candid in public. ‘I dare say you never was in a rip-tide or an overfall?’
‘I have never been in a boat in my life.’
‘Nor ever seen the sea?’
‘Nor yet the Thames, until today.’
‘The gentleman has never set foot in a boat before,’ said Ransome to the waterman, ‘nor ever shot the bridge: so he was surprised.’
‘Never set foot in a boat before?’ exclaimed the waterman, resting on his oars.
‘Not once: not so much as a farden skiff,’ said Ransome, who was a waterman’s son himself, from Frying-pan Stairs in Wapping, and who had been nourished and bred on the water, fresh or salt, since first he drew breath. They stared at Tobias, and eventually the waterman said, ‘Then how do they get about, where he comes from?’
‘They walk,’ said Tobias. ‘It is all dry land.’
‘Well, I don’t know, I’m sure,’ said the waterman, dipping his oars and edging his boat across to the Tower stairs. He would take no further notice of Tobias: considered him a dangerous precedent, and was seen, as they went away, to dust Tobias’ seat over the running water, with particular vehemence.
It was a still evening as they walked into the Tower, and although the day had been tolerably warm, the mist was already forming over the water; two or three hundred thousand coal-fires were alight or lighting, and the smoke, mingling with the mist, promised, as Ransome said, ‘to grow as slab as burgoo’ before long.
They walked briskly in past the spur-guard, past a faded representation of a lion and up to a door with another lion painted above it: a tiny black-haired man with a white face, the under-keeper, was renewing the ghastliness of this lion’s maw with vermilion paint. ‘There is horror, look you,’ he said, putting his head on one side and surveying his work through narrowed eyes. ‘There is gore and alarm, isn’t it?’ He was unwilling to leave his brush; but the prospect of immediate gain will always seduce an artist, and pocketing Ransome’s shilling the under-keeper opened the door.
‘I am infinitely obliged to you, sir,’ said Tobias, when they were outside again and walking down to the river.
‘Haw,’ said Ransome, with a lurch of his head to acknowledge this civility. ‘That’s all right, mate: but I wish you had not a-done it. It makes me feel right poorly, only to think on it,’ he said, leaning against the rail of the Tower stairs and reflecting upon the sight of Tobias in the lions’ den, peering down the throat of an enormous beast that was stated to be ‘a very saucy lion, the same that is eatingthe young gentlewoman’s arm last Bartholomew Fair.’
‘Up or down, gents?’ cried the waterman. ‘Oars, sir? Pair of oars?’
‘Up or down, mate?’ asked Ransome, recovering from his reverie and thumping Tobias on the back.
‘Do you see that bird?’ asked Tobias, pointing to the Customs House, where a number of kites were coming in to roost upon the cornucopias and reclining goddesses (or perhaps nymphs) that decorated the pediment.
‘Ar,’ said Ransome, looking through the misty dusk in the general direction of a flight of pigeons.
‘I believe – I do not assert it, but I
believe
that it is a black kite,’ said Tobias.
‘All right, mate,’ said Ransome, with cheerful indifference, ‘I dare say it is. Up or
‘I thought you was surprised,’ said Ransome, with a grin; and the waterman closed one eye.
‘I was never so frightened before,’ said Tobias, ‘and I find that my heart is still beating violently.’
‘Why, it’s a question of use,’ said Ransome, wishing that his companion would be a little less candid in public. ‘I dare say you never was in a rip-tide or an overfall?’
‘I have never been in a boat in my life.’
‘Nor ever seen the sea?’
‘Nor yet the Thames, until today.’
‘The gentleman has never set foot in a boat before,’ said Ransome to the waterman, ‘nor ever shot the bridge: so he was surprised.’
‘Never set foot in a boat before?’ exclaimed the waterman, resting on his oars.
‘Not once: not so much as a farden skiff,’ said Ransome, who was a waterman’s son himself, from Frying-pan Stairs in Wapping, and who had been nourished and bred on the water, fresh or salt, since first he drew breath. They stared at Tobias, and eventually the waterman said, ‘Then how do they get about, where he comes from?’
‘They walk,’ said Tobias. ‘It is all dry land.’
‘Well, I don’t know, I’m sure,’ said the waterman, dipping his oars and edging his boat across to the Tower stairs. He would take no further notice of Tobias: considered him a dangerous precedent, and was seen, as they went away, to dust Tobias’ seat over the running water, with particular vehemence.
It was a still evening as they walked into the Tower, and although the day had been tolerably warm, the mist was already forming over the water; two or three hundred thousand coal-fires were alight or lighting, and the smoke, mingling with the mist, promised, as Ransome said, ‘to grow as slab as burgoo’ before long.
They walked briskly in past the spur-guard, past a faded representation of a lion and up to a door with another lion painted above it: a tiny black-haired man with a white face, the under-keeper, was renewing the ghastliness of this lion’s maw with vermilion paint. ‘There is horror, look you,’ he said, putting his head on one side and surveying his work through narrowed eyes. ‘There is gore and alarm, isn’t it?’ He was unwilling to leave his brush; but the prospect of immediate gain will always seduce an artist, and pocketing Ransome’s shilling the under-keeper opened the door.
‘I am infinitely obliged to you, sir,’ said Tobias, when they were outside again and walking down to the river.
‘Haw,’ said Ransome, with a lurch of his head to acknowledge this civility. ‘That’s all right, mate: but I wish you had not a-done it. It makes me feel right poorly, only to think on it,’ he said, leaning against the rail of the Tower stairs and reflecting upon the sight of Tobias in the lions’ den, peering down the throat of an enormous beast that was stated to be ‘a very saucy lion, the same that is eatingthe young gentlewoman’s arm last Bartholomew Fair.’
‘Up or down, gents?’ cried the waterman. ‘Oars, sir? Pair of oars?’
‘Up or down, mate?’ asked Ransome, recovering from his reverie and thumping Tobias on the back.
‘Do you see that bird?’ asked Tobias, pointing to the Customs House, where a number of kites were coming in to roost upon the cornucopias and reclining goddesses (or perhaps nymphs) that decorated the pediment.
‘Ar,’ said Ransome, looking through the misty dusk in the general direction of a flight of pigeons.
‘I believe – I do not assert it, but I
believe
that it is a black kite,’ said Tobias.
‘All right, mate,’ said Ransome, with cheerful indifference, ‘I dare say it is. Up or
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