an'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 cl