'TILDA.

'William will post this.'

"But you're not sure of that, you know," he urged. Hereat Tilda found
the excuse she wanted for losing her temper (for her falsehood--or,
rather, the boy's pained disapproval of it--yet shamed her).

"'Oo brought yer 'ere, I'd like to know? And where'd yer be at this
moment if 'twasn't for me an' 'Dolph? In Glasson's black 'ole, that's
where yer'd be! An' now sittin' 'ere so 'igh-an'-mighty, an'
lecturin'!"

The boy's eyes had filled with tears.

"But I'm not--I'm not!" he protested. "Tilda!--"

"As if," she jerked out between two hard, dry sobs (Tilda, by the way,
never wept)--"as if I wasn' _sure_, after chasin' Bill all this way on
purpose, and 'im the best of men!"

Just at this moment there emerged from the after-companion of the
_Severn Belle_, immediately below them, a large head shaped like an
enormous pear--shaped, that is, as if designed to persuade an upward
passage through difficult hatchways, so narrow was the cranium and so
extremely full the jowl. It was followed by a short bull neck and a
heavy pair of shoulders in a shirt of dirty grey flannel; and having
emerged so far, the apparition paused for a look around. It was the
steersman of yesterday afternoon.

"'Ullo, below there!" Tilda hailed him.

"'Ullo yerself!" The man looked up and blinked. "W'y, if you ain't the
gel and boy?"

"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' ashore somewhere. An', I should say, drinkin'
'ard," he added reflectively.

But here Godolphus interrupted the conversation, wriggling h