“I’m sorry,” she said, looking down on him.
They tried again. When they pulled together the wheels turned slowly and crept back. When he leaned to shift his grip the chair felt immovable. She got into waiting and pulling with him. As they got farther back the ground was drier, and at last she could move the chair unaided. The wheels ran on to a patch of dwarfed weed. She stopped, realizing that she did not know now in which direction he wanted to go. Immediately he manipulated adroitly round to face her.
“Look at your shoes; too bad,” he said. There was grave politeness and a genuineness that pleased her. “I thought you weren’t going to come, though. I waved and waved and shouted . . .”
“It must have been the wind and the water; I never heard,” she explained, wondering whether she ought to leave him, yet not wanting to. “Which way?”
“No; you’ve done enough. I’ll take more care, thanks. I should have had more sense, anyway.”
He looked again at her shoes and asked if she had far to go.
“Only there,” she nodded in the direction of the farm.
“Prettyfield! How is it I’ve never seen you?” he asked. “I’m one of Bert’s regulars.”
“I’ve only just come. It’s the first time I’ve been by the water.”
“It’s a great place, don’t you think?” His glance circled slowly and appreciatively. While his attention was away she looked quickly at his square chin which held an unusual V-shaped dimple, in which short dark hairs sprouted. His brows were thick and met, making a straight black bar under the high forehead. His eyes came back and caught her scrutiny. Hastily she looked over his head, down the water There was silence, ended by his unhurried, husky speech. “I don’t know what I’d do without here to come to. Do you fish?”
“No,” she answered. “It always seems so . . . so slow. If you ever caught anything . . .”
“That shows . . . It isn’t what you catch, it’s the doing that matters . . . like with so many other things. So long as I’m here, I don’t mind. I like to be by the water and to see the hills.”
“Yes,” said Flo, liking his voice.
“Things get on top of you, sometimes, you know. That’s when I get away here, if I can. I’d only just put my rod up.” He let his right hand fall on the brown canvas cover tucked by his side. “I haven’t caught anything to-day . . . got caught myself instead, eh?”
“If I’d kept on the road you’d still be there,” said Flo. He smiled agreement, and she began to wipe her shoes on the weed. To get the thick of the mud off he offered a knife with a handle of brown corrugated horn and a worn blade. She crouched and scraped awkwardly, knowing his steady watching.
“Put it here,” he invited, touching the edge of the footrest. “My hands are as doesn’t matter; and it’s my fault.”
“I can manage,” she answered.
“You won’t let me pay you back anyway?”
“It was nothing. I thought I’d go all round. Is there a way?”
“Yes,” he said, willingly. “I’d show you, but I only get along this side . . . and not always that.” He smiled ruefully. “But if you go far enough there’s a bridge.” He pointed towards the larches and let his arm circle, indicating the opposite woods and the far end of the lake in turn. “And back by the main road.”
Flo wiped the knife. As she gave it to him she was struck by the paleness of the inside of his hand in contrast with the brown back. She wondered what he did; if he worked at all.
“Sure you can manage? Suppose you sink again?” she asked.
“I won’t. Once bitten, twice shy . . . like a fish. Once it’s escaped, he’ll be a good man to catch it again.” He paused and turned the chair towards the water. “You see where I came; should have kept nearer the edge. There must be a spring under that patch.”
“If you’ll be all right then . . .”
“Ever so many thanks again. Tell Bert you’ve been talking to Dick Goldbourn.”