He certainly talked very slowly, in a dreary, monotonous sort of
voice, which suited his dull, pasty face better than it suited the
subject of his exciting narratives. But I think it seemed to make one
all the more impatient to hear what was coming. A very favourite
place of ours for "telling" was the wharf (Johnson's wharf, as it was
called), where the canal boats came and went, and loaded and unloaded.
We made a "coastguard station" among some old timber in the corner,
and here we used to sit and watch for the boats.

When a real barge came we generally went over it, for the men knew
Fred, and were very good-natured. The barges seemed more like ships
than the canal boats did. They had masts, and could sail when they got
into the river. Sometimes we went down into the cabin, and peeped into
the little berths with sliding shutter fronts, and the lockers, which
were like a fixed seat running round two sides of the cabin, with lids
opening and showing places to put away things in. I was not famous in
the nursery for keeping my things very tidy, but I fancied I could
stow my clothes away to perfection in a locker, and almost cook my own
dinner with the bargeman's little stove.

And every time a barge was loaded up, and the bargemaster took his
post at the rudder, whilst the old horse strained himself to
start--and when the heavy boat swung slowly down the canal and passed
out of sight, I felt more and more sorry to be left behind upon the
wharf.