Fogo decided to risk an encounter with the Admiral. In a few
minutes he was afloat, and briskly rowing in the wake of the
picnic-party.
But black Care, that clambers aboard the sea-going galley, did not
disdain a seat in the stern of Mr. Fogo's boat. She sat her down
there, and would not budge for all his pulling. Neither could the
smile of the clear sky woo her thence, nor the voices of the day; but
as on ship-board she must still be talking to the man at the wheel,
and on horseback importunately whispering to the rider from her
pillion, so now she besieged the ear of Mr. Fogo, to whom her very
sex was hateful.
Further and further he rowed in vain attempt to shake off this
incubus; passed at some distance the rock where the picnickers had
spread their meal (luckily, the Admiral's back was turned to the
river), doubled the next bend, ran his boat ashore on a little patch
of shingle overarched with trees, and, stepping out, sat down to
smoke a pipe.
Secure from observation, he could hear the laughter of the picnickers
borne melodiously through the trees; and either this or the tobacco
chased his companion from his side; for his brow cleared, the puffs
of smoke came more calmly, and before the pipe was smoked out, Mr.
Fogo had sunk into a most agreeable fit of abstraction.
Pages:
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164