True Tilda Part 39

"Where's Bill?" she asked, cutting him short.

"Bill?"

"Yes, Bill--w'ich 'is full name is William; an' if 'e's sleepin' below I'd arsk yer to roust 'im out."

"Oh," said the stout man slowly, "Bill, is it?--Bill? Well, he's gone."

"Gone?"

"Aye; 'e's a rollin' stone, if you wants my pinion--'ere ter-day an'

gone ter-morrow, as you might put it. There's plenty o' that sort knockin' around."

"D'yer mean--ter say as Bill's--_gone?_"

"Maybe I didn' make myself clear," answered the stout man politely.

"Yes, gone 'e 'as, 'avin' only shipped on for the trip. At Stourport.

Me bein' short-'anded and 'im fresh off the drink."

"But Bill doesn't drink," protested Tilda, indignant in dismay.

"Oh, doesn't 'e? Then we're talkin' of two different parties, an' 'ad best begin over again. . . . But maybe," conceded the stout man on second thoughts, "you only seen 'im sober. It makes a difference.

The man I mean's dossin' ash.o.r.e somewhere. An', I should say, drinkin'

'ard," he added reflectively.

But here G.o.dolphus interrupted the conversation, wriggling himself backwards and with a sudden yap out of Tilda's clutch. Boy and girl turned, and beheld him rush towards a tall, loose-kneed man, clad in dirty dungaree, dark-haired and dark-avised with coal-dust, who came slouching towards the quay's edge.

"Bill! Oh, Bill!" Tilda sprang up with a cry. Perhaps the cry was drowned in the dog's ecstatic barking. The man--he had obviously been drinking--paid no attention to either; or, rather, he seemed (since he could not disregard it) to take the dog's salutation for granted, and came lurching on, fencing back 'Dolph's affectionate leaps.

"G'way!"

He advanced unsteadily towards the edge of the basin, not perceiving, or at any rate not recognising the children, though close to them.

"Let my cap be'ind," he grumbled; "elst they stole it."

He drew himself up at the water's edge, a dozen yards or so wide of the _Severn Belle's_ stern.

"Oh, Bill!" Tilda flung herself before him as he stood swaying.

"'Ullo!" He recognised her slowly. "And wot might _you_ be doin' 'ere?

Come to remember, saw you yesterday--you _and_ your frien'. Yes, o'

course--ver' glad t' meet yer--_an'_ yer friend--any friend o' yours welcome, 'm sure."

He stretched out a hand of cordiality towards Arthur Miles.

"Oh, Bill--we've been countin' on yer so--me an' 'Dolph. This is Arthur Miles, an' I've told 'im all along as you're the best and 'elpfullest o' men--an' so you are, if you pull yerself together. 'E only wants to get to a place called 'Olmness, w'ich is right below 'ere--"

"'Olmness?"

"It's an Island, somewhere in the Bristol Channel. It--it _can't_ be far, Bill--an' I got 'arf-a-sufferin'--"

"Where?" asked Bill with unexpected promptness.

"Never you mind, just now."

Bill a.s.sumed an air of injured but anxious virtue.

"'Course, if you don't _choose_ to trust me, it's another matter . . .

but I'd like to know you came by it honest."

"Of course she did!" Arthur Miles spoke up to the rescue hotly.

Bill turned a stare on him, but dropped it, somewhat abashed.

"Oh, well, I'm not sayin' . . ." he muttered sulkily, and then with a change of tone, "But find yer an Island--somewheres in the Bristol Channel--me! It's rid.i.c.klus."

Tilda averted her face, and appeared to study the masts of the shipping.

Her cheek was red and something worked in her throat, but in a few seconds she answered quite cheerfully--

"Well, the first thing is to pick up a breakfast. If Bill can't find us an Island, maybe 'e can show us a respectable 'ouse, where they make their cawfee strong--an' not the 'ouse where 'e slept last night, if it's all the same to 'im."

They found a small but decent tavern--"The Wharfingers' Arms, _Shipping Gazette_ daily"--and breakfasted on coffee and boiled eggs. The coffee was strong and sticky. It did Bill good. But he persisted in treating the adventure as a wild-goose chase. He had never heard of Holmness.

It was certainly not a port; and, that being so, how--unless they chartered a steamer--could they be landed there?

"That's for you to find out," maintained Tilda.

"Well," said he, rising from the meal, "I don't mind lookin' around an'

makin' a few inquiries for yer. But I warn yer both it's 'opeless."

"You can post this letter on yer way," she commanded. "I'll pay fer the breakfast."

But confidence forsook her as through the small window they watched him making his way--still a trifle unsteadily--towards the docks. For a little distance 'Dolph followed him, but halted, stood for a minute wagging his tail, and so came trotting back.

"'E'll manage it," said Tilda at length.

Arthur Miles did not answer.

"Oh, I know what you're thinkin'!" she broke out. "But 'tisn' everyone can look down on folks bein' born with _your_ advantages!" She pulled herself up sharply, glancing at the back of the boy's head: for he had turned his face aside. "No--I didn' mean that. An'--an' the way you stood up fer me bein' honest was jus' splendid--after what you'd said about tellin' lies, too."

They wandered about the docks all day, dodging official observation, and ate their midday crust behind the cinder-shed that had been their shelter over-night. Tilda had regained and kept her old courage, and in the end her faith was justified.

Towards nightfall Bill sought them out where he had first found them, by the quay-edge close above the _Severn Belle_.

"It's all right," he said. "I done it for yer. See that boat yonder?"

He jerked his thumb towards a small cargo steamer lying on the far side of the basin, and now discernible only as a black blur in the foggy twilight. "She's the _Evan Evans_ of Cardiff, an' bound for Cardiff.

Far as I can larn, Cardiff's your port, though I don't say a 'andy one.

Fact is, there's no 'andy one. They seem to say the place lies out of everyone's track close down against the Somerset coast--or, it may be, Devon: they're not clear. Anyway," he wound up vaguely, "at Cardiff there may be pleasure steamers runnin', or something o' the sort."

"Bill, you're an angel!"