In the village, Mr. Daw was getting quite fidgety at Alfy's absence.
"What can have happened to the lad?" said he. "The boy would surely not be so long in finding a boat, and if he could not find one he would have been here to say so. Jones, just you put all these things in the pony cart and get as near as you can to Fairglen." Fairglen was the right and proper name of the Island House.
"He has evidently been to other shops," continued Mr. Daw. "Here's a large sirloin of beef from Smithers, and quite a cargo of bread from Deane's, and vegetables and fruit from Wilson's. Why, good gracious me! one would think they were going to stand a siege up at Fairglen. I 'spect it is as the lad says, they've got nothing at all to eat. What can be keeping the boy I can't think."
"Prap's he's tumbled into the water, please, sir, and got drownded," drawled out Jones slowly.
"Get on quickly and put these things in the cart," said his master sharply. Jones' slow ways and stupid remarks generally annoyed Mr. Daw.
In quick time the goods for the Island House were packed in the grocer's little cart, and the slow Jones seated himself in front. "Drive as near to Fairglen as you can," said his master, "and shout aloud to attract attention. Now, mind you deliver the goods quickly."
"As quickly as I can," replied Jones, a grin slowly spreading over his expansive face.
Thus it came about in time that while Alfy was slowly working his way along by the brink of the flood, the well-meaning but rather stupid Jones was staring in profound astonishment at the tub and the tin bath Alfy had left in the morning.
"Well, I never!" exclaimed Jones. "They be rum boats, they be!"
He had driven the cart up the lane as far as he could, and after tethering the horse, was now rambling beside the water.