"The Evan Evans, of Cardiff," responded the skipper between his hollowed palms.
"Whither bound?"
"Cardiff."
The foremost boat was close now and drifting alongside. Arthur Miles and Tilda stared down upon the faces of the rowers. They were eight or ten, and young for the most part—young men of healthy brown complexions and maidens in sun-bonnets; and they laughed, with upturned eyes, as they fell to their oars again to keep pace with the steamer's slackening way. The children now discerned what cargo the boats carried—each a score or two of sheep, alive and bleating, their fleeces all golden in the strange light.
An old man stood in the stern of the leading boat. He wore a long white beard, and his face was extraordinarily gentle. It was he who answered the skipper.
"For Cardiff?" he echoed.
"Aye, the Evan Evans, of Cardiff, an' thither bound. Maybe you've heard of him," added the skipper irrelevantly. "A well-known Temperance Reformer he was."
The old steersman shook his head.
"You're miles away out o' your course, then—five an' twenty miles good."
"Where are we?"