“So I did, Ada. She’s untied herself again. Yes, she ’as. ’Asn’t she, Albert?”
This appeal for corroboration was directed to the other small boy on the Lechton. It failed signally.
“No, you did not tie Liz to the chimney. You know you never, Nuppie.”
“Wait till we get out of this lock!” said Nuppie, earnestly.
The water pouring in from the northern sluice was forcing the tillers violently against the southern sluice gates.
“If them boys,” said Tom Blake in an overwrought voice, “lets them tillers go round, it’s all up with my pair o’ boats. Lemme do it, you——” The rest of the sentence was mercifully lost in the thump with which Thomas’s feet bounded on the Ashlade’s cabin-top. He made Liz fast to the circular foot of iron chimney projecting from the boards; then, jumping back to the land, he said, more in sorrow than in anger: “Lazy little brats! an’ they’ve ’ad their tea, too.”
Clear of the locks, I walked with Thomas and his ancient horse, trying to explain what I wanted done. But it was not until we had tied up for the night, had had beer at the Shovel, and (Nuppie and Albert being safely asleep in the second cabin) had met at supper that my instructions had been fully grasped. Thomas himself was inclined to be diffident, and had it not been for Ada would, I think, have let my offer slide. She was enthusiastic. It was she who told me of the cottage they had at Fenny Stratford, which they used as headquarters whilst waiting for a cargo.
“That can be used as a permanent address,” I said. “All you have to do is to write your name at the end of each typewritten sheet, enclose it in the stamped envelope which I will send you, and send it by post. When the cheques come, sign them on the back and forward them to me. For every ten pounds you forward me, I’ll give you one for yourself. In any difficulty, simply write to me—here’s my own address—and I’ll see you through it.”
“We can’t go to prison for it, can we, mister?” asked Ada suddenly, after a pause.
“No,” I said; “there’s nothing dishonest in what I propose.”