The boat in question was needed for an estuary or bay in which sailing
is permitted. Since we had decided to take a holiday on the shores
of this water it seemed well to secure something to navigate; and
as I detest rowing it had to be something with sails, petrol being
too scarce. The hotel people sent me the name of a man who had
sailing-boats for hire. I corresponded with him, fixed up the price
(an exorbitant one), and arranged for the boat to be ready on Monday
afternoon.
On Monday afternoon it had not arrived. There was the sea; there was
the little pier; there were plenty of rowing-boats, but my vessel
was--where?
After breakfast the next day there was still no boat, but word came
that its owner had called and would I see him?
"About the boat," he began.
"Where is it?" I asked.
"She's moored just round the point there," he said.
"Why isn't she here?" I asked, adopting his pronoun. I had forgotten
for the moment that boats belong to the now enfranchised sex.
"Did you want her so soon?" he replied.
"It was all arranged for her to be here yesterday afternoon," I said.
"I have your letter about it."
"Oh, well, she'll be here directly," he answered.
"I should have preferred you to keep your word," I said stiffly.
He made no reply.
"Send for her at once," I said. It was now half-past ten.
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