THE ENGLISH BOAT-HIRER.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XVIII, Issue 6255, 3 December 1881, Page 7

THE ENGLISH BOAT-HIRER.

At this season of the year the British boatman is slightly active. He lounges, indeed, but he lounges with the air of a man who is willing to be courted into agility. The seaside breeze is full of his cry of, " Bort, sir, bort'. bootiful day for a row, sir. Try a little fishin', sir. Pouting as long as vour arm a-swiinmin' about outside, sir; likewise codlins, sir, and plaice as it is a weariness to haul aboard." I remem'er being seduced by one of these men into " trying" an hour's fishing. I knew it was rather early for fish worth catching to be about, and, besides, the water was like glass—nothing stirring it but the long-drawn folds of the delicate ground swell, and vague horizon that seemed to revolve like a horizontal corkscrew in the quivering haze of heat. The man who wanted me to go with him had a neck that

inclined forward, and gave his head an eager posture; his blanket trousers came as high as his shoulder-blades, and the perspiration

trickled down his uose from under his cap as he stood soliciting me. "I don't believe there are any fish to be caught," said I.

"I beg your parding," he exclaimed, looking at me with dull astonishmen? ; "would you be pleased to repeat that remark, sir ?" I did as he asked me. "No fish to be caught!" he cried ; " p'raps pouting isn't fish ; p'raps codlin as long as that—ay, and as that—isn't fish? P'rps lemon soles, as eat with more relish nor turbot, with backs all meat, and fetchin' two shillings apiece on the barrers, isn't fish ? Mind, I won't contradict you and say they is fish ; but when I saw a gent come ashore two hours ago, followed by Bill Burton and Old Dan'l a carrying off his catuhings, auJ stooping— strong men as they be—under the weight of 'em, it seems to me that if wot they'd got in their hands warn't fish, them fish must ha' changed their natures in a wiolent hurray."

"It will be very hot work sitting in an open boat," said I. " Hot ? Well, an' a good job, too," he answered. "It's the heat as makes the fish hungry. It's contrairy with what it is with men. Hot weather makes men thirsty, but it gives the fish a happetite. That's the difference 'tween livin' in air and livin' in water." "Very well," said I; " get the bait and bring your boat round." He bundled off with a very grave face, and, after a long and violent struggle with his boat, during which he cast off the painter, shipped the rowlocks, adjusted a red-hot cushion in the stern sheets, and threw out his oars with the ponderous energy peculiar to boatmen, he brought his boat alongside and I got into her. He proved, as I had suspected, a talkative man, and favoured me with his views on a great number of subjects. I believe he talked with the idea of distracting my mind from contemplation of the mission I had embarked 011, and to prevent me from complaining of the fierce heat of the sun. After he had rowed a certain distance, lie began to peer about him with great ostentation of anxiety, pausing on his oar, and dropping his head on one side whilst he viewed the land ; then pulling another stroke or two and pausing again. I asked

if anything was the matter with him. " The right hole," he answered, "where all the good fish come together is juss hereabouts,

and I'm waiting to get the bearings. I'm the only boatman belonging to the place as knows the exact spot, which obliges me to be a bit sly, for the watermen are a trifle jealous of my luck, and they're not overparticular in their use o' spy-glasses." I , found him very slow in getting the bearings of the "exact spot." Either he overshot it, or was too far to the westward of it, or the trickle of tide dropped him astern of it. He would look at me under his eyelids sometimes, just to see if I was not growing more hopeful of obtaining sport in the face of his accurate and laborious measures to come at it. At last he made up his mind that he was exactly over the wonderful hole where all the good fish assembled, on which he tossed his oars in, and tumbled a little anchor over the bows. We were about two miles distant from the shore. The oilsmooth water was an exquisite vehicle of sound, and the cries from the laud, the tinkling of bells, the rattle of wheels floated past my ears with beautiful clearness, and in miniature notes, as though the little kingdom of Lilliput was under our bows, and I was listening to the echoes from its tiny metropolis. The heat thickencd the atmosphere, and the vessels on the horizon loomed large and vaguely ; the water was a delicate lit?lit green, dotted here and there with spots of colour in the shape of red and white and black buoys gently leaning one way with the tide. It was pleasant to listen to the lip-lipping of the current tenderly caressing the sides of the boat that slowly rose and slowly fell on the breathing bosom of the water. But for the heat, I might have pardoned my boatman for courting me into this trip. The swaying of the boat was lulling, the hazy distances were dreamy and the light of them soft, and the noontide stillness of the air was heightened rather than disturbed by the fine small sounds which came from the shining land. But neither the voice, the appearance, nor the movement of the boatman were friendly to poetic musings. It was not easy to watch his face and survey the posture of his immense blanket-trousers as he sat clearing the fishing-lines and think of the beautiful. We got our lines overboard, and I waited with i some expectation for those "bites" which the boatman assured me would quickly come "as thick as mud in a wine glass." I noticed that he fished with a very businesslike air, with a slight look ot wonder, as if rather surprised at not immediately hooking a large fish. After hanging over the edge of the boat for above half an hour, during which timo I lost my bait on an average of once every five minutes, either through the tide or through crabs, I got a powerful bite, and dragged up, with a beating heart, a great mass of seaweed. This was very mortifying. But now the boatman had a bite. It was apparently more powerful than mine had been. He struggled with the line, and I might have supposed he had caught a large cod. "Lord, how he pulls!" he muttered, and then, when I was looking eagerly, he shouted, " Gone, ana be blowed to him It was an excellent bit of acting. He looked dreadfully annoyed and disappointed. He pulled up the hook, examined it narrowly, said it looked all right to him, and that "it was werry odd, though true, as a scientific gent, a nat'ral philosopher, had told him that some fish lias the art of getting off a hook after they're on it, it ud be interesting to know how they did it; if he had the learning he'd write to the papers, and recommend the Acquecrium folks to look into the matter." He was more fortunate than I, for he had several strong and struggling bites after that, whereas the time w.ent by without bringing me one. His fish always managed to get off, somehow or other, just before reaching the surface. I own that he acted liis part so cleverly that several times I was deceived, and caught myself bobbing over the gunwale with renewed hope, and wondering why all tfie fish should collect on his side of the boat. But, at last, the comedy grew wearisome, and, what was more, the sun threatened in a short time to make it unbearable. I pulled up my line and flung it into the boat, and told him to get up his anchor. " Surely ye ain't going to give up, sir ?" he exclaimed. " Why, the fish han't had time yet to smell the bait." "They must have lost the sense of smell," said I, "for we have been here an hour and a half." "Look here, sir." he said, in a low voice, "Iwouldn]t tell before, as it's a place I keep special for two or three gents as pays me five shillings an hour for the privilege. But as you've had no luck, I don't mind telling you. You see that buoy ! Well, about ten fathoms to the right o' that is a bit of ground thick with fish—thick! aye, thick ain't the word. There's no word to touch the truth. I'll row you over there." And he began to bustle about; but I had had enough. "Up with your anchor," said I, "and put me ashore." He saw I was in earnest, but he was not done with me yet. There was a good twenty minutes to be wasted in winding up the lines, getting in the anchor, swabbing the bottom of the boat, wiping his forehead" looking around the sea, getting his oars out, and moistening his hands. I suppose it was the surprise he laboured under, the astonishment at our want of luck and my want of perseverance that made him so slow. He worked like a man oppressed with amazement, and, true actor as he was, he made stimulated emotion profitable to the last, for his astonishment kept me at sea three-quarters of an hour after I had told him to put me ashore.—Telegraph.