MR. ROWE ON BARGE-WOMEN—THE RIVER—NINE ELMS—A MYSTERIOUS NOISE—ROUGH QUARTERS—A CHEAP SUPPER—JOHN'S BERTH—WE MAKE OUR ESCAPE—OUT INTO THE WORLD.  
Mr. Rowe is quite right. A canal is nothing to a river.
 
There was a wide piece of water between us and one of the banks now, and other barges went by us, some sailing, some towing only, and two or three with women at the rudder, and children on the deck.
 
"I wouldn't have my wife and fam'ly on board for something!" said Mr. Rowe grimly.
 
"Have you got a family, Mr. Rowe?" I inquired.
 
"Yes, sir," said the barge-master. "I have, like other folk. But women and children's best ashore."
 
"Of course they are," said I.
 
"If you was to turn over in your mind what they might be good for now," he continued, with an unfathomable eye on the mistress of a passing canal-boat, [99]"you'd say washing the decks and keeping the pots clean. And they don't do it as well as a man—not by half."
 
"They seem to steer pretty well," said I.
 
"I've served in very different vessels to what I'm in now," said Mr. Rowe, avoiding a reply, "and I may come as low as a monkey-barge and coal; but I'm blessed if ever I see myself walk on the towing-path and leave the missus in command on board."
 
At this moment a barge came sailing alongside of us.
 
"Oh look!" cried Fred, "it's got a white horse painted on the sail."
 
"That's a lime barge, sir," said Mr. Rowe; "all lime barges is marked that way."
 
She was homeward bound, and empty, and soon passed us, but we went at a pretty good pace ourselves. The wind kept favourable, a matter in which Fred and I took the deepest interest. We licked our fingers, and held them up to see which side got cooled by the breeze, and whenever this experiment convinced me that it was still behind us, I could not help running back to Fred to say with triumph, "The wind's dead aft," as if he knew nothing about it.
 
At last this seemed to annoy him, so I went to contain myself by [100]sitting on the potato-tub and watching the shore.
 
We got into the Thames earlier than usual, thanks to the fair wind.
 
The world is certainly a very beautiful place. I suppose when I get right out into it, and go to sea, and to other countries, I shall think nothing of England and the Thames, but it was all new and wonderful to Fred and me then. The green slopes and fine trees, and the houses with gardens down to the river, and boats rocking by the steps, the osier islands, which Mr. Rowe called "Aits," and the bridges where the mast had to be lowered, all the craft on the water—the red-sailed barges with one man on board—the steamers with crowded decks and gay awnings—the schooners, yachts, and pleasure boats—and all the people on shore, the fishers, and the people with water-dogs and sticks, the ladies with fine dresses and parasols, and the ragged boys who cheered us as we went by—everything we saw and heard delighted us, and the only sore place in my heart was where I longed for Rupert and Henrietta to enjoy it too.
 
Later on we saw London. It was in the moonlight that we passed Chelsea. Mr. Rowe pointed out the Hospital, in which the pensioners must have been asleep, for not a wooden leg was stirring. In less than [101]half-an-hour afterwards we were at the end of our voyage.
 
The first thing which struck me about Nine Elms was that they were not to be seen. I had thought of those elms more than once under the burning sun of the first day. I had imagined that we should land at last on some green bank, where the shelter of a majestic grove might tempt Mr. Rowe to sleep, while Fred and I should steal gently away to the neighbouring city, and begin a quite independent search for adventures. But I think I must have mixed up with my expectations a story of one of the captain's escapes—from a savage chief in a mango-grove.
 
Our journey's end was not quite what I had thought it would be, but it was novel and interesting enough. We seemed to have thoroughly got to the town. Very old houses with feeble lights in their paper-patched windows made strange reflections on the river. The pier looked dark and dirty even by moonlight, and threw blacker and stranger shadows still.
 
Mr. Rowe was busy and tired, and—we thought—a little inclined to be cross.
 
"I wonder where we shall sleep!" said Fred, looking timidly up at the dark old houses.
 
I have said before that I find it hard work to be very brave after dark, but I put a good face on the matter, and said I dared say old [102]Rowe would find us a cheap bedroom.
 
"London's an awful place for robbers and murders, you know," said Fred.
 
I was hoping the cold shiver running down my back was due to what the barge-master called "the damps from the water"—when a wail like the cry of a hurt child made my skin stiffen into goose-prickles. A wilder moan succeeded, and then one of the windows of one of the dark houses was opened, and something thrown out which fell heavily down. Mr. Rowe was just coming on board again, and I found courage in the emergency to gasp out, "What was that?"
 
"Wot's wot?" said Mr. Rowe testily.
 
"That noise and the falling thing."
 
"Somebody throwing, somethin' at a cat," said the barge-master. "Stand aside, sir, if you please."
 
It was a relief, but when at length Mr. Rowe came up to me with his cap off, in the act of taking out his handkerchief, and said, "I suppose you're no richer than you was yesterday, young gentlemen—how about a bed?"—I said, "No—o. That is, I mean if you can get us a cheap one in a safe—I mean a respectable place."
 
"If you leaves a comfortable 'ome, sir," moralized the barge-master, "to go a-looking for adventures in this fashion, you must put up with [103]rough quarters, and wot you can get."
 
"We'll go anywhere you think right, Mr. Rowe," said I diplomatically.
 
"I knows a waterman," said Mr. Rowe, "that was in the Royal Navy like myself. He lives near here, and they're decent folk. The place is a poor place, but you'll have to make the best of it, young gentlemen, and a shilling 'll cover the damage. If you wants supper you must pay for it. Give the missis the money, and she'll do the best she can, and bring you the change to a half-farthing."
 
My courage was now fully restored, but Fred was very much overwhelmed by the roughness of the streets we passed through, the drunken, quarrelling, poverty-struck people, and the grim, dirty old houses.
 
"We shall be out of it directly," I whispered, and indeed in a few minutes more Mr. Rowe turned up a shabby entry, and led us to one of several lower buildings round a small court. The house he stopped at was cleaner within than without, and the woman was very civil.
 
"It's a very poor place, sir," said she; "but we always keep a berth, as his father calls it, for our son John."
 
"But we can't take your son's bed," said I; "we'll sit up here, if you will let us."
 
"Bless ye, love," said the woman, "John's in [104]foreign parts. He's a sailor, sir, like his father before him; but John's in the merchant service."
 
Mr. Rowe now bade us good-night. "I'll be round in the morning," said he.
 
"What o'clock, Mr. Rowe?" I asked; I had a reason for asking.
 
"There ain't much in the way of return cargo," he replied; "but I've a bit of business to do for your father, Mr. Fred, that............