road and hardly looking at his steps, but moving now rapidly, now
slowly, like a drunken man.

The street that led down to the ferry dated back to an age before carts
had superseded pack-horses, and the makers had cut it in stairs and
paved it with cobbles. It plunged so steeply, and the houses on either
side wedged it in so tightly, that to look down from the top was like
peering into a well. A patch of blue water shone at the foot, framing a
small dark square--the signboard of the "Four Lords" Inn. Just now
there were two or three men gathered under the signboard.

As Young Zeb drew near he saw that they wore pig-tails and round shiny
hats: and, as he noticed this, his face, which had been pale for the
last five minutes, grew ashen-white. He halted for a moment, and then
went on again, meaning to pass the signboard and wait on the quay for
the ferry.

There were half a dozen sailors in front of the "Four Lords." Three sat
on a bench beside the door, and three more, with mugs of beer in their
hands, were skylarking in the middle of the roadway.

"Hi!" called out one of those on the bench, as Zeb passed. And Zeb
turned round and came to a halt again.

"What is it?"

"Where 're ye bound, mate?"

"For the ferry."