Three Men In A Boat - Chapter 2 - Classic Fiction Audiobook Read by Dr James Gill

Good evening. Three Men in a Boat. Chapter Two. Plans discussed. Pleasures of camping out. On fine nights. Ditto wet nights. Compromise decided upon. Montmorency. First impressions of. Fears is too good for this world. Fears subsequently dismissed as groundless. Meeting adjourns. We pulled out maps and discussed plans. We arranged to start on the following Saturday from Kingston. Harris and I would go down in the morning and take the boat up to Chertsey, and George would not be able to get away from the city till afternoon. George goes to sleep at a bank from ten till four each day, except Saturdays, where they wake him up and put him outside at two. Would meet us there. Should we camp out or sleep at Innes? George and I were for camping out. We said it would be so wild and free, so patriarchal-like. Slowly the golden memory of the dead sun fades from the hearts of the cold, sad clouds. Silent, like sorrowing children, the birds have ceased their song. An owner of the moorhen's plaintive cry and harsh croak of the corncrake stirs the awed hutch around the couch of waters, where the dying day breathes out her last. From the dim woods on either bank, night's ghostly army, the grey shadows creep out with noiseless tread to chase away the lingering rearguard of the light and pass with noiseless, unseen feet above the wavering river grass and through the sighing rushes. And night, upon her sombre throne, folds her black wings above the darkening world and, from her phantom palace lit by the pale stars, rains in stillness. Then we run our little boat into some quiet nook, and the tent is pitched, and the frugal supper cooked and eaten. Then the big pipes are filled and lighted, and the pleasant chat goes round in musical undertone, while, in the pause of our talk, the river, playing round the boats, paddles strange old tales and secrets. Singing low the old child's song, it has sung so many thousands of years, and will sing so many thousand years to come, before its voice grows harsh and old. A song that we, who've learnt to love its changing face, and who have so often nestled in its yielding bosom, think somehow we understand, though we could not tell you in mere words the story that we listen to. And we sit there, by its margin, while the moon, who loves it too, stoops down to kiss it with a sister's kiss and throws her silver arms around it clingingly. And we watch as it flows, ever singing, ever whispering, out to meet its king, the sea, till our voices die away in silence and the pipes go out, till we, commonplace, everyday young men enough, feel strangely full of thoughts, half sad, half sweet, and do not care nor want to speak, till we laugh and, rising, knock the ashes from our burnt-out pipes and say good night. And, lulled by the lapping water and the rustling trees, we fall asleep beneath the great still stars and dream that the world is young again. Young and sweet as she used to be, e'er the centuries of fret and care had furrowed her fair face, e'er her children's sins and follies had made old her loving heart. Sweet as she was in those bygone days when a new-made mother, she nursed us, her children, upon her own deep breast, e'er the wiles of painted civilisation that lured us away from her fond arms and the poisoned sneers of artificiality that made us ashamed of the simple life we'd led with her, and the simple, stately home where mankind was born so many thousands of years ago. Harris said, How about when it rained? You can never rouse Harris. There is no poetry about Harris, no wild yearning for the unattainable. Harris never weeps, he knows not why. If Harris's eyes filled with tears, you can bet it is because Harris has been eating raw onions or has brought too much Worcester over his chop. If you were to stand at night by the seashore with Harris and say, Hark, do you not hear? Is it but the mermaids singing deep below the waving waters? Or sad spirits chanting dirges for white corpses held by seaweed? Harris would take you by the arm and say, I know what it is, old man. You've got to chill. Now you come along with me. I know a place around the corner here where you can get a drop of the finest Scotch whisky you ever tasted. I'll put you right in less than no time. Harris always does know a place around the corner where you can get some brilliance in a drinking line. I believe that if you met Harris up in paradise, supposing such a thing is likely, he would immediately greet you with, so glad you've come over, fellow. I've found a nice place around the corner here where you can get some first-class nectar. In the present instance, however, as regarding the camping out, his practical view of the matter came as a very timely hint. Camping out in rainy weather is not pleasant. It is evening. You are wet through and there is a good two inches of water in the boat. And all the things are damp. You find a place on the banks that is not quite so puddly as the others you have seen. You land and lug out the tent and the two of you proceed to fix it. It is soaked and heavy and it flops about and tumbles down upon you and clings around your head and makes you mad. The rain is pouring steadily down all the time. It is difficult enough to fix a tent in dry weather. In wet, the task becomes herculean. Instead of helping you, it seems to you that the other man is simply playing the fool. Just as you get your side beautifully fixed, he gives it a hoist from his end and spoils it all. Here, what are you up to? You call out. What are you up to? He retorts. Let go, can't you? Don't pull it. You've got it all wrong, you stupid ass. You shout. No, I haven't. He yells back. Let your side go. I tell you, you've got it all wrong. You roar, wishing that you could get at him. And you give your ropes a lug that pulls all his pegs out. Ah, the bally idiot, you hear him mutter to himself. And then comes a savage whore and away goes your side. You lay down the mallet and start to go round and tell him what you think about the whole business. And at the same time, he starts round in the same direction to come and explain his views to you. And you follow each other round and round, swearing at each other until the tent tumbles down in a heap and leaves you looking at each other across its ruins. Then you both indignantly exclaim in the same breath. There you are. What did I tell you? Meanwhile, the third man, who's been bailing out the boat and who's spilled the water down his sleeve and has been cussing away to himself steadily for the last 10 minutes, wants to know what the thundering blaze is you're playing at and why the belarmed tent isn't up yet. At last, somehow or other, it does gut up. And you land the thing. It is hopeless attempting to make a wood fire so you can light the methylated spirit stove and then crowd round that. Rainwater is the chief article of diet at supper. The bread is two-thirds rainwater. The beefsteak pie is exceedingly rich in it. And the jam. And the butter. And the salt. And the coffee. All have combined with it to make soup. After supper, you find your tobacco is damp and you cannot smoke. Luckily, you have a bottle of the stuff that cheers and inebriates if it is taken in proper quantity. This restores you to sufficient interest in life to induce you to go to bed. Then you dream that an elephant has suddenly sat down on your chest and that the volcano has exploded and thrown you down to the bottom of the sea, the elephant still sleeping peacefully on your bosom. You wake up and grasp the idea that something terrible really has happened. Your first impression is that the end of the world has come. And then you think this cannot be and it is thieves and murderers or else fire. And this opinion you express in your usual method. No help comes. However, and all you know is that thousands of people are kicking you and you are being smothered. Somebody else seems in trouble too. You can hear his faint cries coming from underneath your bed. Determining, at all events, to sell your life dearly, you struggle frantically, hitting out right and left with arms and legs and yelling lustily for the while. And at last something gives way and you find your head in the fresh air. Two feet off, you dimly observe a half-dressed ruffian waiting to kill you and you're prepared for a life-and-death struggle with him when it begins to dawn upon you that Jim. Oh, it's you, is it? He says, recognising you in the same moment. Yes, you answer, rubbing your eyes. What's happened? Your belly-tent's blown down, I think, he says. Where's Bill? Then you both raise up your voices and shout, Bill! And the ground beneath you heaves and rocks and the muffled voice that you heard before replies from out of the ruin, Get off my head, can't you? And Bill struggles out, a muddy, trampled wreck and, in an unnecessarily aggressive mood, he begins under the evident disbelief that the whole thing's been done on purpose. In the morning, you are all three speechless owing to having caught some severe colds in the night and you feel very quarrelsome and you swear at each other in hoarse whispers during the whole breakfast time. We therefore decided that we would sleep on out and fine nights and hotel it and in it and pub it like respectable folks when it was wet or we felt inclined for a change. Montmorency held this compromise with much approval. He does not revel in a romantic solitude. Give him something noisy and, if a trifle low, so much the jollier. To look at Montmorency, you would imagine he was an angel set upon the earth for some reason withheld from mankind in the shape of a small fox terrier. There is a sort of oh, what a wicked world it is and how I wish I could do something to make it better and nobler expression about Montmorency that has been known to bring tears into the eyes of pious old ladies and gentlemen. When he first came to live at my expense I never thought I should be able to get him to stop long. I used to sit down and look at him as he sat on the rug and looked up at me and think oh, that dog will never live. He'll be snatched up to the bright skies in a chariot. That is what will happen to him. But when I had paid for about a dozen chickens that he had killed and had dragged him growling and kicking by the scruff of his neck out of a hundred and fourteen street fights and had had a dead cat brought round for my inspection by an irate female who called me a murderer and had been summoned by the man next door but one for having had a ferocious dog at large that had kept him pinned up in his own tool shed afraid to venture his nose outside the door for over two hours on a cold night and had learned that the gardener, unknown to myself had won thirty shillings by backing him to kill rats against time then I began to think that maybe they'd let him remain on earth for a little bit longer after all. To hang about a staple and collect a gang of the most disreputable dogs to be found in the town and lead them out to march around the slums to fight other disreputable dogs is Montmorency's idea of life. And so, as I before observed he gave to the suggestions of inns and pubs and hotels his most emphatic approbation. Thus, having settled the sleeping arrangements to the satisfaction of all four of us the only thing left to discuss was what we should take with us. And this we had begun to argue when Harris said he'd had enough oratory for one night and proposed that we go out and have a smile saying he'd found a place round by the square where you could really get a drop of Irish worth drinking. George said he felt thirsty I never knew George when he didn't and as I had a presentiment that a little whisky, warm and with a slice of lemon would do my complaint good the debate was by common assent adjourned to the following night and the assembly put on its hats and went out. End of chapter two