October it is; and where the Wye's silver stream, like a grand glistening snake, meanders amid these woods of golden hue and glorious song, a small row-boat is seen dropping downward. There are two men in it--one rowing, the other seated in the stern sheets, steering. The same individuals have been observed before in like relative position and similarly occupied. For he at the oars is Jack Wingate, the steerer Captain Ryecroft.
Little thought the young waterman, when that "big gift"--the ten pound bank-note--was thrust into his palm, he would so soon again have the generous donor for a fare.
He has him now, without knowing why, or inquiring. Too glad once more to sit on his boat's thwarts, _vis-à-vis_ with the Captain, it would ill become him to be inquisitive. Besides, there is a feeling of solemnity in their thus again being together, with sadness pervading the thoughts of both, and holding speech in restraint. All he knows is that his old fare has hired him for a row down the river, but bent on no fishing business, for it is twilight. His excursion has a different object; but what, the boatman cannot tell. No inference could be drawn from the laconic order he received at embarking.
"Row me down the river, Jack!" distance and all else left undefined.
And down Jack is rowing him in regular measured stroke, no words passing between them. Both are silent, as though listening to the plash of the oar-blades, or the roundelay of late singing birds on the river's bank.
Yet neither of these sounds has place in their thoughts; instead, only the memory of one different and less pleasant. For they are thinking of cries--shrieks heard by them not so long ago, and still too fresh in their memory.
Ryecroft is the first to break silence, saying,--
"This must be about the place where we heard it."
Although not a word has been said of what the "it" is, and the remark seems made in soliloquy rather than as an interrogation, Wingate well knows what is meant, as shown by his rejoinder:--
"I do--am sure. You see that big poplar standing on the bank there?"
"We wor just abreast o' it when ye bid me hold way. In course we must a heard the screech just then."
"Hold way now! Pull back a length or two. Steady her. Keep opposite the tree!"