“Where’s the Shovel?”
“Past Cowley, the Shovel is.” This was spoken in a tired drawl which was evidently meant to preclude further chit-chat. To clinch things, he slouched away, waving me in an abstracted manner to the towpath.
I took the hint. It was now three o’clock in the afternoon. Judging by the pace of the barges I had seen, I should catch Blake easily before nightfall. I set out briskly. An hour’s walking brought me to Hanwell, and I was glad to see a regular chain of locks which must have considerably delayed the Ashlade and Lechton.
The afternoon wore on. I went steadily forward, making inquiries as to Thomas’s whereabouts from the boats which met me, and always hearing that he was still ahead.
Footsore and hungry, I overtook him at Cowley. The two boats were in the lock. Thomas and a lady, presumably his wife, were ashore. On the Ashlade’s raised cabin cover was a baby. Two patriarchal-looking boys were respectively at the Ashlade’s and Lechton’s tillers. The lady was attending to the horse.
The water in the lock rose gradually to a higher level.
“Hold them tillers straight!” yelled Thomas. At which point I saluted him. He was a little blank at first, but when I reminded him of our last meeting his face lit up at once. “Why, you’re the mister wot——”
“Nuppie!” came in a shrill scream from the lady with the horse. “Nuppie!”
“Yes, Ada!” answered the boy on the Ashlade.
“Liz ain’t tied to the can. D’you want ’er to be drownded? Didn’t I tell you to be sure and tie her up tight?”