Dead an’ done for, the boat business, if you ask me; and what’s more, it ain’t never likely to pick up again. Played clean out, the same as ’orses an’ the music-’alls.”

“Bad as that, eh? How do you account for it? There must be some explanation.”

“Too slow for ’em, I reckon. Want to be on the move all the time nowadays. Like to ’op into a car and chase off to one o’ them road-’ouses where they can dance ’alf the night and fill ’emselves up with gin. No use for lyin’ about in a punt. Why, if they feels like a bit o’ courtin’ all they gotter do is to turn off the road and pull up behind a hedge.”

“Sounds a bit cramped and uncomfortable, but perhaps I’m old-fashioned.” Owen lit a cigarette and offered one to his companion. “You see, I have been out of England for a couple of years, and no doubt there have been all sorts of fresh developments. Do people still fish, or is that considered too Victorian?”

“We get a few at the week-end—furriners mostly. Find more o’ them down Thames Ferry way.”

“That’s where I’m thinking of laying up. Mr. Anstey says that the most likely place is just below the weir, the farther side of the island. Tells me there’s a pub somewhere close by where one can drop in for a pint in the evening.”

“He’ll be meanin’ the Red Lion up the backwater. Aye, you couldn’t do much better than stay around there. Old friend o’ mine Ted Mellon, the landlord. Just you mention my name, and if there’s anything you want he’ll fix you up proper.”

There was a sudden splashing sound in the direction of the river, and glancing round over his shoulder, Owen saw the nose of a punt emerging from the big shed at the end of the landing-stage. It was being piloted by ’Erbert.

“How about the island?” he inquired. “Do you happen to know who’s living there now?”

“Party o’ the name o’ Craig. Bought it a couple o’ years ago when the old General died. Can’t tell you much about him ’cept that he’s a Londoner.”

“What sort of a chap is he? Had any dealings with him?”

Mr. Martin shook his head. “No, nor no one else neither. Don’t suppose he’s spent a tenner in the place not since he’s been here. One of the kind that comes down for the week-end and brings his own stuff with him.”

“Hardly the way to make himself popular.”

“You’ve said it.” The speaker removed his pipe and spat disgustedly.

“Anyone in the house the rest of the time, or does he just leave it empty?”

“There’s the gardener or odd man, or whatever he calls himself. I’ve seen ’im messin’ around when I been going past. Big, hefty-looking bloke with as ugly a clock as I’ve ever clapped me eyes on. Folks about ’ere say he’s a dago and can’t even talk proper English.”

“Well, I don’t suppose he’ll interfere with my fishing.” Owen laughed carelessly and hoisted himself up. “Anyhow, I intend to hang about off the island, and if he doesn’t like it he can go to hell.”

With a grim chuckle Mr. Martin stooped down and picked up the handbag.

“Now that’s what I calls talkin’, ” he observed approvingly.

***

Somewhere in the distance a clock chimed out the hour of seven. Its sound was just audible above the splashing of the weir, and rousing himself from his half-recumbent position, Owen sat up and began to reel in his line. The sun, now low down in the west, had already disappeared behind the trees on the opposite bank.