“Where’s Bill?” she asked, cutting him short.

“Bill?”

“Yes, Bill—­w’ich ‘is full name is William; an’ if ‘e’s sleepin’ below I’d arsk yer to roust ’im out.”

“Oh,” said the stout man slowly, “Bill, is it?—­Bill?  Well, he’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“Aye; ‘e’s a rollin’ stone, if you wants my pinion—­’ere ter-day an’ gone ter-morrow, as you might put it.  There’s plenty o’ that sort knockin’ around.”

“D’yer mean—­ter say as Bill’s—­gone?”

“Maybe I didn’ make myself clear,” answered the stout man politely.  “Yes, gone ’e ’as, ‘avin’ only shipped on for the trip.  At Stourport.  Me bein’ short-’anded and ’im fresh off the drink.”

“But Bill doesn’t drink,” protested Tilda, indignant in dismay.

“Oh, doesn’t ‘e?  Then we’re talkin’ of two different parties, an’ ’ad best begin over again. . . .  But maybe,” conceded the stout man on second thoughts, “you only seen ’im sober.  It makes a difference.  The man I mean’s dossin’ ashore somewhere.  An’, I should say, drinkin’ ’ard,” he added reflectively.

But here Godolphus interrupted the conversation, wriggling himself backwards and with a sudden yap out of Tilda’s clutch.  Boy and girl turned, and beheld him rush towards a tall, loose-kneed man, clad in dirty dungaree, dark-haired and dark-avised with coal-dust, who came slouching towards the quay’s edge.

“Bill!  Oh, Bill!” Tilda sprang up with a cry.  Perhaps the cry was drowned in the dog’s ecstatic barking.  The man—­he had obviously been drinking—­paid no attention to either; or, rather, he seemed (since he could not disregard it) to take the dog’s salutation for granted, and came lurching on, fencing back ’Dolph’s affectionate leaps.

“G’way!”

He advanced unsteadily towards the edge of the basin, not perceiving, or at any rate not recognising the children, though close to them.

“Let my cap be’ind,” he grumbled; “elst they stole it.”

He drew himself up at the water’s edge, a dozen yards or so wide of the Severn Belle’s stern.

“Oh, Bill!” Tilda flung herself before him as he stood swaying.

“‘Ullo!” He recognised her slowly.  “And wot might you be doin’ ’ere?  Come to remember, saw you yesterday—­you and your frien’.  Yes, o’ course—­ver’ glad t’ meet yer—­an’ yer friend—­any friend o’ yours welcome, ’m sure.”

He stretched out a hand of cordiality towards Arthur Miles.

“Oh, Bill—­we’ve been countin’ on yer so—­me an’ ’Dolph.  This is Arthur Miles, an’ I’ve told ’im all along as you’re the best and ’elpfullest o’ men—­an’ so you are, if you pull yerself together.  ’E only wants to get to a place called ’Olmness, w’ich is right below ’ere—­”

“’Olmness?”

“It’s an Island, somewhere in the Bristol Channel.  It—­it can’t be far, Bill—­an’ I got ’arf-a-sufferin’—­”