"Yes, Bill—w'ich 'is full name is William; an' if 'e's sleepin' below
I'd arsk yer to roust 'im out."
"Oh," said the stout man slowly, "Bill, is it?—Bill? Well, he's gone."
"Gone?"
"Aye; 'e's a rollin' stone, if you wants my pinion—'ere ter-day an' gone ter-morrow, as you might put it. There's plenty o' that sort knockin' around."
"D'yer mean—ter say as Bill's—gone?"
"Maybe I didn' make myself clear," answered the stout man politely.
"Yes, gone 'e 'as, 'avin' only shipped on for the trip. At Stourport.
Me bein' short-'anded and 'im fresh off the drink."
"But Bill doesn't drink," protested Tilda, indignant in dismay.
"Oh, doesn't 'e? Then we're talkin' of two different parties, an' 'ad best begin over again. . . . But maybe," conceded the stout man on second thoughts, "you only seen 'im sober. It makes a difference. The man I mean's dossin' ashore somewhere. An', I should say, drinkin' 'ard," he added reflectively.
But here Godolphus interrupted the conversation, wriggling himself backwards and with a sudden yap out of Tilda's clutch. Boy and girl turned, and beheld him rush towards a tall, loose-kneed man, clad in dirty dungaree, dark-haired and dark-avised with coal-dust, who came slouching towards the quay's edge.
"Bill! Oh, Bill!" Tilda sprang up with a cry. Perhaps the cry was drowned in the dog's ecstatic barking. The man—he had obviously been drinking—paid no attention to either; or, rather, he seemed (since he could not disregard it) to take the dog's salutation for granted, and came lurching on, fencing back 'Dolph's affectionate leaps.