I remember one of Fred’s stories about the captain was of his spending a year and a day on an island called Musk Island, in the Pacific.  He had left the ship, Fred said, to do a little exploring alone in his gig.  Not knowing at that time that the captain’s gig is a boat, I was a good deal puzzled, I remember, to think of Mrs. Johnson’s red-faced father crossing the sea in a gig like the one Mr. Bustard used to go his professional “rounds” in.  And when Fred spoke of his “pulling himself” I was yet more bewildered by the unavoidable conclusion that they had no horse on board, and that the gallant and ever-ready captain went himself between the shafts.  The wonder of his getting to Musk Island in that fashion was, however, eclipsed by the wonders he found when he did get there.  Musk-hedges and bowers ten feet high, with flowers as large as bindweed blossoms, and ladies with pale gold hair all dressed in straw-coloured satin, and with such lovely faces that the captain vowed that no power on earth should move him till he had learned enough of the language to propose the health of the Musk Island beauties in a suitable speech after dinner.  “And there he would have lived and died, I believe,” Fred would say, “if that first mate, who saved his life before, had not rescued him by main force, and taken him back to his ship.”

I am reminded of this story when I think of the island in Linnet Lake, for we were so deeply charmed by it that we very nearly broke our voyage, as the captain broke his, to settle on it.

Mr. Rowe called the lake Linnet Flash.  Wherever the canal seemed to spread out, and then go on again narrow and like a river, the barge-master called these lakes “flashes” of the canal.  There is no other flash on that canal so large or so beautiful as Linnet Lake, and in the middle of the lake lies the island.

It was about three o’clock, the hottest part of a summer’s day, and Fred and I, rather faint with the heat, were sitting on a coil of rope holding a clean sheet, which Mr. Rowe had brought up from the cabin to protect our heads and backs from sunstroke.  We had refused to take shelter below, and sat watching the fields and hedges, which seemed to palpitate in the heat as they went giddily by, and Mr. Rowe, who stood quite steady, conversing coolly with the driver.  The driver had been on board for the last hour, the way being clear, and the old horse quite able to take care of itself and us, and he and the barge-master had pocket-handkerchiefs under their hats like the sou’-wester flaps of the captain’s sea-friends.  Fred had dropped his end of the sheet to fall asleep, and I was protecting us both, when the driver bawled some directions to the horse in their common language, and the barge-master said, “Here’s a bit of shade for you, Master Fred;” and we roused up and found ourselves gliding under the lee of an island covered with trees.

“Oh, do stop here!” we both cried.