Her draught must be less than a foot that was clear as she tore along behind the cantering horses at a speed that must certainly be all of eight knots–nine miles an hour he told himself, hurriedly, for that was the way they measured speeds here inland. It was a queer craft, fully seventy feet long and, judging by eye as he looked aft, he would think hardly five feet in beam–the same proportions as had the crazy dugout canoes he had seen in use in the West Indies. Here he could stand on his sea chest and look round him. Maria, with the sleeping little Horatio in her arms, gave a sigh at her husband’s restlessness and shifted her knees to allow him passage, and he rose under the restricted height of the first-class cabin and stepped out through the forward door into the open bow of the passage-boat. ‘Your pardon for a moment, ma’am,’ said Hornblower. This was a delightful way of travelling, despite the cold. Hornblower was bubbling with good spirits, on his way to take up a new command, seeing new sights, travelling in an entirely new way, at a moment when the entirely unpredictable English weather had decided to stage a clear sunny day in the middle of December. Having climbed up through the locks, the canal boat was now winding over the pleasant Cotswold country.
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