At this moment we
passed a small boat being rowed briskly along by a not unattractive
girl.
"Now, watch her," said the coxswain, helpfully, to me; "study the way
that poor fragile girl, that mere child, pulls the oars, and try to do
likewise."
I observed in shamed silence. My hands ached. A motor boat slid
swiftly by and I distinctly saw a man drinking beer from the bottle.
"Hell isn't dark and smoky," thought I to myself; "hell is bright and
sunny, and there is lots of sparkling water in it and on the sparkling
water are innumerable boats and in these boats are huddled the poor
lost mortals who are forced to listen through eternity to the wise
cracks of cloven-hoofed, spike-tailed coxswains. That's what hell is,"
thought I, "and I am in my probation period right now."
"Feather your oars!" suddenly screamed our master at the straining
crew.
"Feather me eye!" yelled back a courageous Irishman. "What do you
think these oars are, anyway--a flock of humming birds? Whoever heard
of feathering a hundred-ton weight? Feather Pike's Peak, say I; it's
just as easy."
Somehow we got back to the pier, but I was almost delirious by this
time. The last part of the trip was all one drab, dull nightmare to
me.
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