'O' course,' said the Raven.
'And then it will be rather late to start off again and strike for the open country to search for a camping-place.'
'Right, Dick—quite right,' rejoined his comrade; 'the wust of it is as lodgin's cost money.'
'Needn't cost ye a single copper this night, anyhow,' said a voice in their ears, and the scouts jumped. Mrs. Slade had come up unseen, and had caught the last words of the Raven.
'Here y' are,' she went on, and pointed to the snug little cabin; 'that's yourn to-night if ye want it.'
'But you'll need it for yourselves,' cried Dick.
'Not this night,' she replied. 'I've got a married darter in Newminster. She've a-married a wharfinger in a good way o' business. Such a house as she've got! Upstairs, downstairs, an' a back-kitchen.'
Mrs. Slade visibly swelled in importance as she described her daughter's palatial surroundings. No doubt they seemed very extensive indeed after one small cabin. 'An' 'tis settled we stay wi' her to-night, so the cabin 'ere will be empty, an' ye're as welcome to it as can be.'
The scouts' eyes glistened, and they were easily induced to accept the kindly offer, and so they glided on their way towards the town, chatting together like old friends. Mrs. Slade pulled up for a moment at the ash plantation, and Chippy sprang out with the tomahawk. In five minutes he was back with a tough, straight ash-stick, which he trimmed and whittled with his knife as they made the last mile into the city.
At the wharf where the barge was to lie for the night they met Mr. Slade, a short, thick-set man, with a short, broad face between a fur cap and a belcher handkerchief. He was to the full as good-natured as his wife, and cordially re-echoed her invitation for the scouts to sleep in their cabin. The wharfinger's house was near at hand, so that the owners of the barge would not be far away.