Bobby, the Captain of a dhoni, with Private Dormer for mate, dropped down the
river on Thursday morning--the Private at the bow, the Subaltern at the helm.
The Private glared uneasily at the Subaltern, who respected the reserve of the
Private.
After six hours, Dormer paced to the stern, saluted, and said--"Beg y'pardon,
sir, but was you ever on the Durh'm Canal?"
"No," said Bobby Wick. "Come and have some tiffin."
They ate in silence. As the evening fell, Private Dormer broke forth, speaking
to himself--"Hi was on the Durh'm Canal, jes' such a night, come next week
twelve month, a-trailin' of my toes in the water." He smoked and said no more
till bedtime.
The witchery of the dawn turned the grey river-reaches to purple, gold, and
opal; and it was as though the lumbering dhoni crept across the splendors of a
new heaven.
Private Dormer popped his head out of his blanket and gazed at the glory below
and around.
"Well--damn-my-eyes!" said Private Dormer, in an awed whisper. "This 'ere is
like a bloomin' gallantry-show!" For the rest of the day he was dumb, but
achieved an ensanguined filthiness through the cleaning of big fish.
The boat returned on Saturday evening. Dormer had been struggling with speech
since noon.
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