"That's for you to find out," maintained Tilda.
"Well," said he, rising from the meal, "I don't mind lookin' around an' makin' a few inquiries for yer. But I warn yer both it's 'opeless."
"You can post this letter on yer way," she commanded. "I'll pay fer the breakfast."
But confidence forsook her as through the small window they watched him making his way—still a trifle unsteadily—towards the docks. For a little distance 'Dolph followed him, but halted, stood for a minute wagging his tail, and so came trotting back.
"'E'll manage it," said Tilda at length.
Arthur Miles did not answer.
"Oh, I know what you're thinkin'!" she broke out. "But 'tisn' everyone can look down on folks bein' born with your advantages!" She pulled herself up sharply, glancing at the back of the boy's head: for he had turned his face aside. "No—I didn' mean that. An'—an' the way you stood up fer me bein' honest was jus' splendid—after what you'd said about tellin' lies, too."
They wandered about the docks all day, dodging official observation, and ate their midday crust behind the cinder-shed that had been their shelter over-night. Tilda had regained and kept her old courage, and in the end her faith was justified.
Towards nightfall Bill sought them out where he had first found them, by the quay-edge close above the Severn Belle.
"It's all right," he said. "I done it for yer. See that boat yonder?" He jerked his thumb towards a small cargo steamer lying on the far side of the basin, and now discernible only as a black blur in the foggy twilight. "She's the Evan Evans of Cardiff, an' bound for Cardiff. Far as I can larn, Cardiff's your port, though I don't say a 'andy one. Fact is, there's no 'andy one. They seem to say the place lies out of everyone's track close down against the Somerset coast—or, it may be, Devon: they're not clear. Anyway," he wound up vaguely, "at Cardiff there may be pleasure steamers runnin', or something o' the sort."