The barge lay at the opposite bank, at the wharf. It was the Annabel, belonging to J. Ruth of Loughborough. The man watched Ursula closely from his keen, twinkling eyes. His fair hair was wispy on his grimed forehead. Two dirty children appeared to see who was talking.
Ursula glanced at the great lock gates. They were shut, and the water was sounding, spurting and trickling down in the gloom beyond. On this side the bright water was almost to the top of the gate. She went boldly across, and round to the wharf.
Stooping from the bank, she peeped into the cabin, where was a red glow of fire and the shadowy figure of a woman. She did want to go down.
“You’ll mess your frock,” said the man, warningly.
“I’ll be careful,” she answered. “May I come?”
“Ay, come if you like.”
She gathered her skirts, lowered her foot to the side of the boat, and leapt down, laughing. Coal-dust flew up.
The woman came to the door. She was plump and sandy-haired, young, with an odd, stubby nose.
“Oh, you will make a mess of yourself,” she cried, surprised and laughing with a little wonder.
“I did want to see. Isn’t it lovely living on a barge?” asked Ursula.