All the villages on the
canal banks looked interesting. We passed one soon after tea, where
the horse rested under some old willows by the towing-path, and we and
Mr. Rowe went ashore. Whilst the barge-master delivered a parcel to a
friend, Fred and I strolled into a lane which led us past cottages
with very gay gardens to the church. The church was not at all like S.
Philip or S. James. It was squat, and ivy-covered, and carefully
restored; and it stood in a garden where the flowers almost hid the
graves. Just outside the lych-gate, four lanes met, and all of them
were so shady and inviting, and it was so impossible to say what they
might not lead to, that I said to Fred,
"You said the only way to run away besides going to sea was to
_tramp_. It sounds rather low, but we needn't beg, and I think walking
would be nice for a change, and I don't believe it would be much
slower than the barge, and it would be so much shadier. And we could
get off from Old Rowe at once, and hide if we heard anybody coming. I
wonder how far it is to London now?"
"Not far, I dare say," said Fred, who was pleased by the idea; "and if
we keep on we must get there in time. And we can get things to eat in
the hedges, which we can't do on the barge.
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