"You don't deliver another shovelful till we're out o' this," said Tilda
positively, stamping the cover in place and standing upon it for safety.
"What's more, if anyone comes an' arsks a question, you ha'n't seen us."

"Neither fur nor feather of ye," said the young man, and grinned.

She cast a look at the boy; another up and down the towing-path.

"Got such a thing as a cake o' soap hereabouts? You wouldn', I
suppose--" and here she sighed impatiently.

"I 'ave, though. Always keeps a bit in my trouser pocket." He produced
it with pride.

Said Tilda, "I don't know yername, but you're more like a Garden Angel
than any I've met yet in your walk o' life. Hand it over, an' keep a
look-out while I wash this child's face. I _can't_ take 'im through the
streets in this state." She turned upon the boy. "Here, you just kneel
down--so--with your face over the water, an' as near as you can manage."
He obeyed in silence. He was still trembling. "That's right, on'y take
care you don't overbalance." She knelt beside him, dipped both hands in
the water, and began to work the soap into a lather. "What's the
'andiest way to the Good Samaritan?" she asked, speaking over her
shoulder.

"Meanin' the 'orspital?"

"Yes." She took the boy's passive face between her hands and soaped it
briskly. "The 'andiest way, _an'_ the quietest, for choice."