accepted the urgent invitation of a hansom-cab driver to get into his
vehicle.

"Westminster Bridge," he said.

He quitted the cab at the corner of the bridge, and walked quickly down
to the steamboat-landing.

"Where do you want to go to?" inquired the gruff, seafaring
ticket-clerk.

"As far as I can," was the reply.

A steamer came almost at once, and Cartoner selected a quiet seat over
the rudder. He must have known that the _Minnie_ was so constructed that
she could pass under the bridges, for he began to look for her at once.
It was six o'clock, and a spring tide was running out. All the passenger
traffic was turned to the westward, and a friendly deck-hand, having
leisure, came and gave Cartoner his views upon cricket, in which, as was
natural in one whose life was passed on running water, his whole heart
seemed to be absorbed. Cartoner was friendly, but did not take advantage
of this affability to make inquiries about the _Minnie_. He knew,
perhaps, that there is no more suspicious man on earth than a river-side
worker.

The steamer raced under the bridges, and at last shot out into the
Pool, where a few belated barges were drifting down stream. A number of
steamers lay at anchor, some working cargo, others idle. The majority
were foreigners, odd-shaped vessels, with funnels like a steam
threshing-machine, and gayly painted deck-houses.