"I hope you 'eard our Vicar, sir--No? Sorry you didn't, sir. I tell yer
'e's a nailer."
And so much for the company at the White Hart Inn.
II
You perhaps think that you know the Thames. You have been at Henley, no
doubt, during regatta week, when both banks were flower-beds of
blossoming parasols and full-blown picture-hats, the river a stretch of
silver, crowded with boats, their occupants cheering like mad. Or you
know Marlowe with its wide stream bordered with stately trees and
statelier mansions, and Oxford with its grim buildings, and Windsor
dominated by its huge pile of stone, the flag of the Empires floating
from its top; and Maidenhead with its boats and launches, and lovely
Cookham with its back water and quaint mill and quainter lock. You have
rowed down beside them all in a shell, or have had glimpses of them
from the train, or sat under the awnings of the launch or regular packet
and watched the procession go by. All very charming and interesting,
and, if you had but forty-eight hours in which to see all England, a
profitable way of spending eight of them.
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