"The 'andiest way," said the young coalheaver, after considering for
half a minute, "an' the quietest, is for me to cast off the bow-straps
here an' let her drop across stream. You can nip up through the garden
yonder--it don't belong to nobody just now. That'll bring you out into
a place called Pollard's Row, an' you turn straight off on your right.
First turnin' opposite on the right by the 'Royal Oak,' which is a
public-'ouse, second turnin' to the left after that, an' you're in Upper
Town Street, an' from there to the Good Samaritan it's no more 'n a
stone's throw."

Tilda was silent for a few moments whilst she fixed these directions in
her mind.

"It do seem," she said graciously while she dried the boy's face with
the skirt of her frock, "like as if you 'd dropped 'ere from 'eaven.
What we should a-done without you, I can't think."

"You'd best thank that dog o' your'n." The young man bent to cast off
his rope. "He broke away from me once, an' I made sure I'd lost 'im.
But by-an'-by back he came like a mad thing, an' no need to tell me you
was inside there. He was neither to hold nor to bind, an' I do believe
if he hadn't thought o' the manhole he'd 'a-broke the wall down, or elst
his 'eart."

"When I tell you 'e got me in as well as out--But, good sake, I musn'
stand 'ere talkin'! Gimme my crutch, an' shove us across, that's a dear
man."

She pushed the boy before her on to the barge. 'Dolph sprang on board
at their heels, and the young coalheaver thrust the bows across with his