'
'I have not been up the river for this many a day,' said Mr.
Grewgious, tempted.
'I was never up the river,' added Rosa.
Within half an hour they were setting this matter right by going up
the river. The tide was running with them, the afternoon was
charming. Mr. Tartar's boat was perfect. Mr. Tartar and Lobley
(Mr. Tartar's man) pulled a pair of oars. Mr. Tartar had a yacht,
it seemed, lying somewhere down by Greenhithe; and Mr. Tartar's man
had charge of this yacht, and was detached upon his present
service. He was a jolly-favoured man, with tawny hair and
whiskers, and a big red face. He was the dead image of the sun in
old woodcuts, his hair and whiskers answering for rays all around
him. Resplendent in the bow of the boat, he was a shining sight,
with a man-of-war's man's shirt on - or off, according to opinion -
and his arms and breast tattooed all sorts of patterns. Lobley
seemed to take it easily, and so did Mr. Tartar; yet their oars
bent as they pulled, and the boat bounded under them. Mr. Tartar
talked as if he were doing nothing, to Rosa who was really doing
nothing, and to Mr. Grewgious who was doing this much that he
steered all wrong; but what did that matter, when a turn of Mr.
Tartar's skilful wrist, or a mere grin of Mr. Lobley's over the
bow, put all to rights! The tide bore them on in the gayest and
most sparkling manner, until they stopped to dine in some ever-
lastingly-green garden, needing no matter-of-fact identification
here; and then the tide obligingly turned - being devoted to that
party alone for that day; and as they floated idly among some
osier-beds, Rosa tried what she could do in the rowing way, and
came off splendidly, being much assisted; and Mr.
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