down the _Success to
Commerce_ for it, and he's as well out o' the way wi' the rest o' you."

Tilda clapped her hands.

"Mind you," he went on, "I'm not includin' any orphan. I got no consarn
with one. I haven't so much as seen him."

He paused, with his eyes fixed severely on Tilda's.

She nodded.

"O' course not."

"And if, when you go back to the van and tell the Mortimers, you should
leave the door open for a minute, forgetful-like, why that's no affair
o' mine."

"I'm a'most certain to forget," owned Tilda. "If you'd been brought up
half yer time in a tent--"

"_To_ be sure. Now attend to this. I give Sam Bossom instructions to
take the boat down to Stratford with three passengers aboard--you and
the Mortimers--as a business speckilation; and it may so happen--I don't
say it will, mind you--that sooner or later Mortimer'll want to pick up
an extry hand to strengthen his company. Well, he knows his own
business, and inside o' limits I don't interfere. Still, I'm financin'
this voyage, as you might say, and someone must keep me informed. F'r
instance, if you should be joined by a party as we'll agree to call
William Bennetts, I should want to know how William Bennetts was doin',
and what his purfessional plans were; and if you could find out anything
more about W. B.--that he was respectably connected, we'll say--why so
much the better. Understand?"

"You want Mr. Mortimer to write?" asked Tilda dubiously.

"No, I don't. I want _you_ to write--that's to say, if you can."

"I can print letters, same as the play-bills."

"That'll do. You can get one o' the Mortimers to address the envelopes.
And now," said Mr. Hucks, "I 'd best be off and speak to Sam Bossom to
get out the boat. Show-folks," he added thoughtfully, "likes travellin'
by night, I'm told. It's cooler."

Two hours later, as the Brewery clock struck eleven, a canal-boat, towed
by a glimmering grey horse, glided southward under the shadow of the
Orphanage wall. It passed this and the iron bridge, and pursued its way
through the dark purlieus of Bursfield towards the open country.
Its rate of progression was steady, and a trifle under three miles an
hour.

Astride the grey horse sat Mr. Mortimer, consciously romantic.
The darkness, the secrecy of the flight--the prospect of recovered
liberty--beyond this, the goal! As he rode, Mr. Mortimer murmured
beatifically--

"To Stratford! To Stratford-on-Avon!" Sam Bossom stood on th