"If it weren't for that, I should rather enjoy it," she said. "There's plenty to eat left in the basket. Shall I get it out and let's have supper before it's quite dark? I do really think it's fun. Don't you?"
"That's right," said he, with a show of bitterness, "make the best of it out of pity for the insane idiot who landed you in this fix. Be bright, be womanly, never let me guess that a cold, damp lock and a 'few bits of broken vittles' are not really better than a decent supper and a roof over your head. A fig3 for the elegancies of civilization and the comforts of home! Go on being tactful. I adore it."
"I meant what I said," she answered, with gentle insistence4. "I do rather like it. I'll whine5 about my dinner and my looking-glass, if you like, but I'll get the supper first. Isn't it glorious to think that there's no one at home—where the comforts and the elegancies are—no one to be anxious about us because we're late, and scold us when we get home? Liberty," she ended, reflectively, "is a very beautiful thing. I suppose no one is likely to come along this way till the shepherd comes in the morning?"
"We'll hope for better luck," said he. "I say, you'll never trust me to take care of you again after this silly business—"
"I don't know," she said, deliberately6, "that I ever asked you to take care of me. Did I? You were to help me—yes, and you have helped me—but I don't think I want to be taken care of, any more than another man would want it. I was in a difficulty and you helped me. If you were in a difficulty and I helped you, you wouldn't expect me to take care of you forever, would you?"
"I don't know," he said. "If you hadn't been extraordinarily7 sensible I should still be there with my hand in the thumbscrew."
"Did you think," she asked, sweetly, "that all women were inevitably8 silly?"
Charles raised his head and growled9.
"There," said she, "you see, even Charles repudiates10 the idea."
If this was so, Charles instantly repudiated11 the idea with more growls12 and the added violence of barks. She muffled13 him in the cloak and listened. A footstep on the towing-path.
"Hullo!" she called, and Edward added, "Hi, you there!" and Charles, wriggling14 forcefully among the folds of the cloak, barked again.
"That ought to fetch them, whoever they are," said Edward, and stood up.
Even as he did so a voice said, urgently and quite close above them. "'Ush, can't yer!" and a head and shoulders leaning over the edge of the lock came as a dark silhouette15 against the clear dark blue of the starry16 sky. For it was now as dark as a July night is—and that, as we know, is never really dark at all. '"Ush!" repeated the voice. "Shut up, I tell yer!" and, surprisingly and unmistakably, it was to the two in the boat that he was speaking. "Make that dawg o' yours choke hisself—stow it, can't yer! Yer don't want to be lagged, do yer? Yer aren't got 'arf a chants once any one knows you're 'ere. Don't you know you're wanted? The police'll be along some time in the night, and then you're done for."
"I think," said Edward, with extreme politeness, "that you are, perhaps, mistaking us for acquaintances, whereas we are strangers to you. But if you could be so kind as to open the gates and lend us a crowbar to get through the other locks you would not be the loser."
"I know yer, right enough," said the man. "Yer ain't no strangers to me. It was me as 'ired yer the boat up at the Anchor. The boss 'e sent me out to look for yer. Only 'e doesn't know I know about your being wanted. Least said soonest mended's what I allus say. Where's yer crow got to?"
"In the water," said Edward; "dropped off the lock gate."
"Clumsy!" said the man, giving the word its full vocative value. "Whereabouts?"
"Just over there," said Edward.
"Then yer tuck up yer shirt-sleeve and run yer 'and down and pass that there crow up to me. There ain't not above two foot o' water in 'er, if there's that."
To your Medway man the lock is as unalterably feminine as his ship to a sailor.
It was she who plunged17 her arm in the water, and, sure enough, there was the crowbar lying quietly and tamely beside them—"like a pet poodle," as she said.
"Give me ahold of that there crow," said the man. He lay face downward and reached down an arm. Edward stood on the thwart18 and reached up. The crowbar changed hands, and the head and shoulders of the deliverer disappeared.
"I don't see what he wants the bar for," said Edward. "The lock's empty. Perhaps he means to go on ahead and open the other locks for us. I wonder who he took us for, and what the poor wretches19 are 'wanted' for—"
"It's a sinister20 word in that connection, isn't it?" said she. "Wanted!"
They pushed the boat toward the lower lock gate and held on to the lock-side, waiting till the lock gate should open and they should be able to pass out and begin their journey down the river to the Anchor. But the gates did not open, and almost at once a tremor21 agitated22 the boat. Edward tightened23 his grip of the boat-hook as the incoming rush of water took the boat's nose and held it hard.
"The idiot!" he said. "The silly idiot! He's filling the lock."
He was, and the rush of the incoming water quite drowned any remonstrances24 that might have been addressed to him. Boat and water rose swiftly, the upper gates opened, and, as they passed through, their deliverer laid his hand on the gunwale, as though to aid the boat's passage. But, instead, he stopped it.
"See 'ere, gov'ner," he said, low and hoarse25 and exactly like a conspirator26, "I couldn't bleat27 it out for all the country to hear while yer was down in the lock, but I knows as you're wanted and yer may think it lucky it's me as come after yer and not the gov'ner nor yet the police."
"I do really think," said she, softly, "that you're making a mistake. The police don't really want us."
"Oh, I got a bit of candle," was the unexpected rejoinder. "Get the young lady to hold the cloak up so as it don't shine from 'ere to Tunbridge to give yer away like, and yer light the dip and 'ave a squint28 at this 'ere."
He held out the candle and matches and a jagged rag of newspaper.
"'Ere," he said, "'longside where I'm 'olding of it."
She made a sort of screen of the cloak. Edward lit the candle, and when the flame had darkened and brightened again he read as follows:
Missing—Young lady, height five feet six, slight build, dark hair and eyes, pale complexion29. Last seen at Jevington, Sussex. Wearing black chiffon and satin dress, black satin slippers30, and a very large French circular cloak with stitched collar. Has no money and no hat. Twenty pounds will be paid to any one giving information as to her whereabouts.
"Well," said Edward, blowing out the candle, "this lady has a hat, as you see, and she hasn't a[130] black dress and satin slippers. Thank you for letting us through; here's something to get a drink with. Hand over the crowbar, please, and good night to you."
"Not so fast, sir," said the man, still holding on, "and don't make to jab me over the fingers with the boat-'ook, like what you was thinking of. I'm your friend, I am. I see that piece in the paper 'fore2 ever a one of them, but I never let on. That's why the gov'ner sent me, 'cause why—'e didn't think I knowed, and 'e means to 'ave that twenty pounds hisself."
"But," said she, "you see, I have got a hat and—"
"Yes, miss," said the man, "an' you've got the cloak, large and black and stitched collar, and all; it's that what's give yer away."
"But supposing I was the young lady," she said, grasping Edward's arm in the darkness, and signaling to him not to interfere31 with feminine diplomacy32, "you wouldn't give me up to the police, would you? I wouldn't give you up if the police wanted you."
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