“The ’andiest way,” said the young coalheaver, after considering for half a minute, “an’ the quietest, is for me to cast off the bow-straps here an’ let her drop across stream.  You can nip up through the garden yonder—­it don’t belong to nobody just now.  That’ll bring you out into a place called Pollard’s Row, an’ you turn straight off on your right.  First turnin’ opposite on the right by the ‘Royal Oak,’ which is a public-’ouse, second turnin’ to the left after that, an’ you’re in Upper Town Street, an’ from there to the Good Samaritan it’s no more ’n a stone’s throw.”

Tilda was silent for a few moments whilst she fixed these directions in her mind.

“It do seem,” she said graciously while she dried the boy’s face with the skirt of her frock, “like as if you ’d dropped ’ere from ’eaven.  What we should a-done without you, I can’t think.”

“You’d best thank that dog o’ your’n.”  The young man bent to cast off his rope.  “He broke away from me once, an’ I made sure I’d lost ’im.  But by-an’-by back he came like a mad thing, an’ no need to tell me you was inside there.  He was neither to hold nor to bind, an’ I do believe if he hadn’t thought o’ the manhole he’d ’a-broke the wall down, or elst his ’eart.”

“When I tell you ‘e got me in as well as out—­But, good sake, I musn’ stand ‘ere talkin’!  Gimme my crutch, an’ shove us across, that’s a dear man.”

She pushed the boy before her on to the barge.  ’Dolph sprang on board at their heels, and the young coalheaver thrust the bows across with his pole.  The canal measured but seventeen or eighteen feet from brink to brink, and consequently the boat, which was seventy feet long at least, fell across at a long angle.  The garden on the opposite shore was unfenced, or rather, its rotten palings had collapsed with time and the pressure of a rank growth of elder bushes.

“So long, an’ th’ Lord bless yer!”

Tilda took the boy’s hand and jumped ashore.

“Same to you, an’ wishin’ you luck!” responded the young coalheaver cheerfully.  “Look ‘ere,” he added, “if you get in trouble along o’ this, I’m willin’ to stand in for my share.  Sam Bossom’s my name—­ employ of Hucks, Canal End Basin.  If they lag you for this, you just refer ’em to Sam Bossom, employ of Hucks—­everyone knows Hucks; an’ I’ll tell ’em—­well, darned if I know what I’ll tell ’em, unless that we was all under the influence o’ drink.”

“You’re a white man,” responded Tilda, “though you don’t look it; but there ain’t goin’ to be no trouble, not if I can ’elp.  If anyone arsks questions, you han’t seen us, mind.”

“Fur nor feather of ye,” he repeated.  He watched the pair as they dived through the elder bushes; saw them, still hand in hand, take the path on the left side of the garden, where its party hedge could best screen them from the back windows of the Orphanage; and poled back meditatively.