argo of coffee that it seemed as if no more could be required in this
country for some generations.

It was very entertaining, and Fred was always calling to me to look at
something new, but my mind was with the shipping. There was a good
deal of anxiety on it too. The sooner we chose our ship and "stowed
away" the better. I hesitated between sailing-vessels and steamers. I
did not believe that one of the captain's adventures happened on
board any ship that could move faster than it could sail. And yet I
was much attracted by some grand-looking steamships. Even their huge
funnels had a look of power, I thought, among the masts, like old and
hollow oaks in a wood of young and slender trees.

One of these was close in dock, and we could see her well. There were
some casks on deck, and by them lay a piece of tarpaulin which caught
my eye, and recalled what the bad boy had said about captains and
stowaways. Near the gangway were standing two men who did not seem to
be sailors. They were respectably dressed, one had a book and a
pencil, and they looked, I thought, as if they might have authority to
ask our business in the docks, so I drew Fred back under shelter of
some piled-up boxes.

"When does she sail?" asked the man with the book.

"To-morrow morning, sir," replied the other.

And then they crossed the gangway and went into a warehouse opposite.

It was noon, and being the men's dinner-time, the docks were not very
busy. At this moment there was not a soul in sight. I grasped Fred's
arm, and hoisted the bundle and pie-dish well under my own.

"That's our ship," I said triumphantly; "come along!"

We crossed the gangway unperceived. "The casks!" I whispered, and we
made our way to the corner I had noticed. If Fred's heart beat as
chokingly as mine did, we were far too much excited to speak, as we
settled ourselves into a corner, not quite as cosy as our hiding-place
in the forehold of the barge; and drew the tarpaulin over our heads,
resting some of the weight of it on the casks behind, that we might
not be smothered.

I have waited for the kitchen kettle to boil when Fred and I wanted to
make "hot grog" with raspberry-vinegar and nutmeg at his father's
house; I have waited for a bonfire to burn up, when we wanted to roast
potatoes; I have waited for it to leave off raining when my mother
would not let us go out for fear of catching colds; but I never knew
time pass so slowly as when Fred and I were stowaways