“Oh, I must be across, sir!” he cried. “Can ye na take me free? I be little and not heavy; and I will help the gentleman with his basket.”
The boatman’s only reply was to drop his hook and push off with the oar.
But the gardener, touched by the boy’s pitiful expression, to say nothing of being tickled by Nick’s calling him gentleman, spoke up: “Here, jack-sculler,” said he; “I’ll toss up wi’ thee for it.” He pulled a groat from his pocket and began spinning it in the air. “Come, thou lookest a gamesome fellow—cross he goes, pile he stays; best two in three flips—what sayst?”
“Done!” said the waterman. “Pop her up!”
Up went the groat.
Nick held his breath.
“Pile it is,” said the gardener. “One for thee—and up she goes again!” The groat twirled in the air and came down clink upon the thwart.
“Aha!” cried the boatman, “’tis mine, or I’m a horse!”
“Nay, jack-sculler,” laughed the gardener; “cross it is! Ka me, ka thee, my pretty groat—I never lose with this groat.”
“Oh, sir, do be brisk!” begged Nick, fearing every instant to see the master-player and the bandy-legged man come running down the bank.