Occasionally he would stop, fling his arms about his body for warmth, and stamp his feet hard to drive away the chill. But his stops were not frequent, because he was in a hurry to end his journey.
On such an autumn day night sets in early, and the road ahead was simply a gray blur by the time the boy had reached the outskirts of the town. But when he did see the first straggling houses he could not help giving a little cry of satisfaction. He met a pedlar going the other way.
"Is this Chatham?" the boy asked, half fearing that the answer would be "No."
"Yes, this here's Chatham."
"And where are the docks, the war-ship docks?" asked the boy.
"Keep straight on this road and you'll walk clean into the water, and there's the ships," said the man.
Doubtless he wondered what the boy wanted of the war-ships, but the lad gave him no chance to satisfy his curiosity. He was hurrying on as fast as he could go.
Soon the houses grew more numerous and the post-road had become a street heading through the heart of an old-fashioned town. The boy had never been to Chatham before, but he did not stop to look at any of the curious houses he passed. He saw a pasty-cook's window filled with buns and tarts, and he remembered how long it had been since breakfast, but even that thought did not make him loiter. He must reach the docks before all the men-o'-war's men had left for the night.
Soon a whiff of fresh air blew in his face. He knew what that meant; he loved that breath of the water; it nerved him to cover the last lap of his long journey at a quick step. Then to his delight, he found himself at last arrived at the water's edge, and before him a shore covered with boats, and the wide river with the dim outlines of the men-o'-war.
He stood still, peering at the great ships, until an old sailor passed near him. "Do those ships belong to the Channel Fleet?" asked the boy.