Chippy caught the shine of the oily swells as the water lapped
gently against the wharf.

There was always water beside Ferryman's Slip at every state of the
tide, and Chippy knew that a bunch of boats would certainly be moored
off the boat-builder's yard at the top end of the slip. He went up
there, and saw their dark forms on the water. He could step into the
nearest, and in a moment he was climbing from one to the other with all
the sureness of a born waterman, searching for what he wanted. Luck
favoured him: he found it on the outside of a bunch, where he had only
to slip the knot of a cord to set it free. It was a little broad boat,
blunt in the bows, wide in the stern, the sort of boat you can sit on
the side of without oversetting, and very suitable for Chippy's purpose
this night.

Now Chippy scratched his jaw thoughtfully. There was the boat, but
oars and rowlocks were safely locked up in the builder's shed. This
would have stumped some people, but not Chippy. Often and often he had
been able to get hold of a boat, but nothing else. He was quite
familiar with the task of rigging up something to take the place of an
oar. He hopped across the boats, gained the shore, and sought the
boat-builder's shed. Around such a place lie piles of planks, broken
thwarts, broken oars, odds and ends of every kind relating to boats,
new or old. Chippy knew the shed, and sought the back.

'Old Clayson used to chuck a lot o' stuff at the back 'ere,' thought
Chippy. 'I wish I durst strike a match, but that 'ud never do. They
might see it.' So he groped and groped with his hands, and could
hardly restrain a yell of delight when his fingers dropped on a smooth
surface, broken by one sharp rib running down the centre.

'A sweep!' Chippy cried to himself joyously--'an old sweep! Now, if
theer's on'y a bit o' handle to it, I'm right.'

With the utmost caution he drew the broken sweep from the pile of odds
and ends where it lay. Yes, there was a piece of handle, and Chippy
made at once for his boat, carrying his prize with him. An oar would
have suited him much better, but beggars must not be choosers. The
fragment of the sweep was heavy and clumsy, but in Chippy's skilled
hands it could be made to do its work.

These preparations had taken some time, and Chippy was about to try his
piece of sweep in the scull-notch in the stern when he paused and
crouched perfectly still on the thwart. They were coming. He hea