The night was extraordinarily still. The water was like deep glass. There were crickets and frogs peeping and somewhere in the distance was a night bird making its call. If one listened closely enough, one might even hear the flutter of bats as they dove for their insect prey.
John Watson was not so peaceful as the night. He was tired and hungry, his shoulder ached, and his feet were damp. "Holmes..." he began, hoping to make clear that he was not at all pleased with the current situation.
"There's hardly anything I can do about it, Watson," countered Holmes, every bit as testy as his friend and as edgy as a trodden upon polecat.
"We should have listened to Inspector Lestrade." He kept one hand on his oar but ceased the paddling in order to massage the shoulder, its muscles making their protest with pangs of white hot pain.
His reply was predictable. "Lestrade is an idiot. I was not about to stand by and let a golden opportunity slip through my fingers."
"So you jumped in a rowboat and dragged me with you and let an unfeasible opportunity slip through your fingers."
"When you put it that way..." He stopped when a small geyser of water sprouted up through the bottom of the boat.
"What now, Holmes?"