Fin and I find him half the time on a bench in a cool place on
the path to the Lock, his nose in his book, his tightly furled umbrella
by his side. No dogs nor punts nor spins up the river for him. He is
taking his holiday and doesn't want to be meddled with or spoken to.
There are, too, the customary maiden sisters--the unattended and
forlorn--up for a week; and the young fellow down from London, all
flannels and fishing-rods--three or four of them in fact, who sit round
in front of the little sliding wicket facing the row of bottles and
pump-handles--divining-rods for the beer below, these
pump-handles--chaffing the barmaids and getting as good as they send;
and always, at night, one or more of the country gentry in for their
papers, and who can be found in the cosey hall discussing the crops, the
coming regatta, the chance of Leander's winning the race, or the latest
reports of yesterday's cricket-match.
Now and then the village doctor or miller--quite an important man is the
miller--you would think so if you could see the mill--drops in, draws up
a chair, and ventures an opinion on the price of wheat in the States or
the coal strike or some kindred topic, the coming country fair, or
perhaps the sermon of the previous Sunday.
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