Professor James Moriarty strayed from the campus' cobblestone paths and strolled down to the river. He had decided to relax for the day and take the scenic route to the library.
The section of the river near the bridge was wide, and on the water were couples and groups of chatty youths slowly punting away their afternoons.
When he reached the riverbank, the young men on one punt waved at him. He waved back.
Suddenly, there came a strange sloshing sound.
Heads turned. Women gasped. Together, the crowd froze in shock and not-quite-awe.
A large, middle-aged man punted down the river, alone, with wasteful fervour. His foppish red suit could have belonged to his son. A thin wisp of smoke trickled from the cigar clamped between his teeth.
He had one foot raised upon the bow of his punt in feeble mimicry of a captain from a sea novel.
With every stroke, he heaved his pole like it was Excalibur from a stone, held it in the air for a moment as if to admire his own form, then thrust it down like he was trying to till the riverbed.
The other punters silently made way. They did not laugh for two reasons, mutually exclusive: they pitied him, or knew him. Moriarty continued walking, at a brisker pace.
The man managed to catch up. He took his cigar from his mouth.
"Moriarty!" he cried.
"Presbury!" Moriarty cried back, in a rather different tone.
"I cannot believe it has taken me this long to understand the pleasures of punting! Care to join me?"
"No, I... no."
Professor Presbury grinned and let out a smug laugh. He looked over his shoulder at the youths he had left in his wake. They were still staring at him. He turned back to Moriarty