Part 18 (2/2)

”I do fink when us is quite big and can do as us likes, us must have a boat like this, and always go sailing along,” said Pamela, when, half-tired with her play, she sat down beside the baby and its mother.

”But it isn't always summer, or beautiful bright weather like this, missy,” said the young woman. ”It's not such a pleasant life in winter or even in wet weather. Last week even it was sadly cold. I hardly durst let baby put her nose out of the cabin.”

”Then us'd only sail in the boat in fine weather,” said Pamela philosophically, to which of course there was nothing to be said.

The next two days pa.s.sed much in the same way. The suns.h.i.+ne fortunately continued, and the children saw no reason to change their opinion of the charms of ca.n.a.l life, especially as now and then Peter landed them on the banks for a good run in the fields. And through all was the delightful feeling that they were ”going home.”

CHAPTER XI.

A SAD DILEMMA.

”Like children that have lost their way And know their names, but nothing more.”

_Phoebe._

It was the last night on the ca.n.a.l. Early the next morning they would be at Monkhaven. The children were fast asleep; so were Peter and his wife and baby. Only Tim was awake. He had asked to stay on deck, as he was quite warm with a rug which Mrs. Peter lent him, and the cabin was full enough. It was a lovely night, and the boy lay looking at the stars overhead thinking, with rather a heavy heart. The nearer they got to the children's home the more anxious he became, not on their account but on his own. It would be so dreadful to be turned adrift again, and, in spite of all the little people's promises, he could not feel sure that the old gentleman and lady would care to have anything to say to him.

”I'm such a rough one and I've been with such a bad lot,” thought the poor boy to himself while the tears came to his eyes. But he looked up at the stars again, and somehow their calm cheerful s.h.i.+ning seemed to give him courage. He had been on the point of deciding that as soon as he was quite sure of the children's safety he would run away, without letting himself be seen at all, though where he should run to or what would become of him he had not the least idea! But the silvery light overhead reminded him somehow of his beautiful dream, for it illumined the boat and the water and the trees as if they were painted by fairy fingers.

”It's come right so far, leastways as far as a dream could be like to real things,” he reflected. ”I don't see why it shouldn't come right all through. Just to think how proud I'd be if they'd make me stable-boy, or gardener's lad maybe, and I could feel I were earning something and had a place o' my own in the world. That's what mother would 'a wished for me. 'Never mind how humble you are if you're earning your bread honest-like,' I've oft heard her say. Poor mother, she'd be glad to know I was out o' that lot anyway,” and Tim's imagination pointed back to the gipsy caravan. ”All, saving Diana--what a lot they are, to be sure! I'm sure and I hope she'll get out of it some day. 'Tis best to hope anyway, so I'll try not to be down-hearted,” and again Tim glanced up at the lovely sky. ”If I could but make a good guess now which of them there stars is heaven, or the way into it anyway, I'd seem to know better-like where poor mother is, and I'd look for it every night. I'm going to try to be a better lad, mother dear. I can promise you that, and somehow I can't help thinking things 'll come straighter for me.”

And then Tim curled himself round like a dormouse, and shut up his bright merry eyes, and in five minutes was fast asleep.

He had kept awake later than he knew probably, for the next morning's sun was higher in the skies than he had intended it should be when a slight shake of his arm and a not unfriendly though rough voice awoke him. Up he jumped in a fright, for he had not yet got over the fear of being pursued.

”What's the matter?” he cried, but Peter--for Peter it was--soon rea.s.sured him.

”Naught's the matter,” he said, ”don't be afeared, but we're close to Monkhaven. I've got to go on to the wharf, but that's out o' your way. I thought we'd best talk over like what you'd best do. I've been up early; I want to get to the wharf before it's crowded. So after you've had some breakfast, you and the little uns, what d'ye think of next?”

”To find the quickest road to Sandle'ham,” said Tim; ”that's the only place they can tell the name of near their home. Diana,” he went on, ”Diana thought as how I'd better go straight to the police at Monkhaven and tell them the whole story, only not so as to set them after Mick if I can help it. She said the police here is sure to know of the children's being stolen by now, and they'd put us in the way of getting quick to their home.”

”I think she's right,” said Peter. ”I'd go with you myself, but my master's a sharp one, and I'd get into trouble for leaving the boat and the horse, even if he didn't mind my having took pa.s.sengers for onst,”

he added, with a smile.

”No, no,” said Tim, ”I'll manage all right. Not that I like going to the police, but if so be as it can't be helped. And look here, Peter,” he went on, drawing out of the inside of his jacket a little parcel carefully pinned to the lining, ”talking of pa.s.sengers, this is all I can give you at present. It was all Diana could get together, but I feel certain sure, as I told you, the old gentleman and lady will do something handsome when they hear how good you've been,” and out of the little packet he gradually, for the coins were enveloped in much paper, produced a half-crown, three s.h.i.+llings, and some coppers.

Peter eyed them without speaking. He was fond of money, and even half-a-crown represented a good deal to him. But he shook his head.

”I'm not going to take nothing of that,” he said; ”you're not yet at your journey's end. I won't say but what I'd take a something, and gladly, from the old gentleman if he sees fit to send it when he's heard all about it. A letter'll always get to me, sooner or later, at the 'Bargeman's Rest,' Crookford. You can remember that--Peter Toft--that's my name.”

”I'll not forget, you may be sure,” said Tim. ”It's very good of you not to take any, for it's true, as you say, we may need it. And so you think too it's best to go straight to the police at Monkhaven.”

”I do so,” said Peter, and thus it was settled.

There were some tears, as might have been expected, and not only on the children's part, when they came to say good-bye to Mrs. Peter and the baby. But they soon dried in the excitement of getting on sh.o.r.e again and setting off under Tim's care on the last stage of their journey ”home.”

”Is it a very long walk, do you think, Tim?” they asked. ”Us knows the way a _long_ way down the Sandle'ham road. Is that Sandle'ham?” as they saw the roofs and chimneys of Monkhaven before them.

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