“It’s all right,” he said.  “I done it for yer.  See that boat yonder?” He jerked his thumb towards a small cargo steamer lying on the far side of the basin, and now discernible only as a black blur in the foggy twilight.  “She’s the Evan Evans of Cardiff, an’ bound for Cardiff.  Far as I can larn, Cardiff’s your port, though I don’t say a ’andy one.  Fact is, there’s no ’andy one.  They seem to say the place lies out of everyone’s track close down against the Somerset coast—­or, it may be, Devon:  they’re not clear.  Anyway,” he wound up vaguely, “at Cardiff there may be pleasure steamers runnin’, or something o’ the sort.”

“Bill, you’re an angel!”

“I shipped for a stoker,” said Bill.

“But what’ll it cost?”

“I don’t want ter speak boas’ful, after the tone you took with me this mornin’”—­Bill spoke with scarcely dissembled pride—­“but that’s where the cleverness comes in.  You see, there ain’t no skipper to ’er—­ leastways not till ter-morrow.  The old man’s taken train an’ off to Bristol, to attend a revival meetin’, or something o’ the sort—­bein’ turned pious since ’is wife died, w’ich is about eighteen months ago.  I got that from the mate, when ’e shipped me.  The mate’s in charge; with the engineer an’ two ’ands.  The engineer—­’e’s a Scotchman—­’as as much whisky inside ’im already as a man can ‘old an’ keep ‘is legs; an’ the ‘ole gang’ll be goin’ ashore again to-night—­all but the mate.  The mate ‘as to keep moderate sober an’ lock ’er out on first ’igh water ter-morrow for Kingroad, where she’ll pick up the old man; and as natcher’lly ’e’ll want somebody sober down in the engine-room, ’e’s got to rely on me.  So now you see.”

“I think I see,” said Tilda slowly.  “We’re to ship as stowaways.”

“You may call it so, though the word don’t ’ardly seem to fit.  I’ve ’eard tell of stowaways, but never as I remember of a pair as ’ad the use of the captain’s cabin, and ’im a widower with an extry bunk still fitted for the deceased.  O’ course we’ll ’ave to smuggle yer away somewheres before the old man comes aboard.  But the mate’ll do that easy.  ’E promised me.”

“Bill, you are an angel!”

It was, after all, absurdly easy, as Bill had promised; and the easier by help of the river-fog, which by nine o’clock—­the hour agreed upon—­ had gathered to a thick grey consistency.  If the dock were policed at this hour, no police, save by the veriest accident, could have detected the children crouching with ’Dolph behind a breastwork of paraffin-casks, and waiting for Bill’s signal—­the first two or three bars of The Blue Bells of Scotland whistled thrice over.

The signal came.  The gang-plank was out, ready for the crew’s return; and at the head of it Bill met the fugitives, with a caution to tread softly when they reached the deck.  The mate was nowhere to be seen.  Bill whispered that he was in his own cabin “holding off the drink,” whatever that might mean.