“Oh no, no. It is all right,” said Mr. Knight, who was as placid as dewy eve by the side of Elfride.
“But what I argue from,” said the vicar, with a greater emphasis of uneasiness, “are plain appearances. This can’t be the highway from London to Plymouth by water, because it is no way at all to any place. We shall miss our steamer and our train too—that’s what I think.”
“Depend upon it we are right. In fact, here we are.”
“Trimmer’s Wharf,” said the cabman, opening the door.
No sooner had they alighted than they perceived a tussle going on between the hindmost cabman and a crowd of light porters who had charged him in column, to obtain possession of the bags and boxes, Mrs. Snewson’s hands being seen stretched towards heaven in the midst of the melee. Knight advanced gallantly, and after a hard struggle reduced the crowd to two, upon whose shoulders and trucks the goods vanished away in the direction of the water’s edge with startling rapidity.
Then more of the same tribe, who had run on ahead, were heard shouting to boatmen, three of whom pulled alongside, and two being vanquished, the luggage went tumbling into the remaining one.
“Never saw such a dreadful scene in my life—never!” said Mr. Swancourt, floundering into the boat. “Worse than Famine and Sword upon one. I thought such customs were confined to continental ports. Aren’t you astonished, Elfride?”
“Oh no,” said Elfride, appearing amid the dingy scene like a rainbow in a murky sky. “It is a pleasant novelty, I think.”
“Where in the wide ocean is our steamer?” the vicar inquired. “I can see nothing but old hulks, for the life of me.”
“Just behind that one,” said Knight; “we shall soon be round under her.”