“Smiles, we must be friends.  Even if, for a paltry trifle of seven pounds fifteen and six, I am condemned by your master (whom you will excuse my terming a miscreant) to eke out the dregs of my worthless existence in this infernal yard—­no, my loved Arabella, you will pardon me, but as a practical man I insist on facing the worst—­even so I have found a congenial spirit, a co-mate and brother in exile, a Friend in my retreat Whom I can whisper:  ‘Solitude is sweet.’  Pursue, my dear Smiles!  You are young:  hope sits on your helm and irradiates it.  For me, my bark is stranded, my fortunes shipwrecked, my career trickles out in the sands.  Nevertheless, take the advice of an Elder Brother, and pursue.  By the way”—­Mr. Mortimer drew from his breast-pocket the stump of a half-consumed cigar—­“I regret that I have not its fellow to offer you; but could you oblige me with a match?”

Sam produced a couple of sulphur matches.

“I thank you.”  Mr. Mortimer lit and inhaled.  “A—­ah!” he sighed between two luxurious puffs.  “Connoisseurs—­epicures—­tell me a cigar should never be lit twice.  But with tobacco of this quality—­the last of the box, alas!  All its blooming companions—­and, between you and me, smuggled.”  He winked knowingly.

Just then a hooter from the Great Brewery announced five o’clock.  Sam groaned.  He had engaged himself to the schoolmaster for an hour’s private tuition before the Evening Class opened, and Mr. Mortimer’s fascinating talk had destroyed his last chance of keeping that engagement.  Even if he dropped work straight away, it would take him a good three-quarters of an hour to clean himself and don his best suit.

He was explaining this to Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer when, his eyes resting on the empty shafts of the wagon, a happy thought occurred to him.

“O’ course,” he began, “—­but there, I don’t like to suggest it, sir.”

“Say on, my friend.”

“Well—­I was thinkin’ that you, may be, bein’ accustomed to hosses—­”

“My father,” put in Mr. Mortimer, “rode to hounds habitually.  A beau ideal, if I may say so, of the Old English squire.  It is in the blood.”

“I know it’s a come-down,” Sam owned.  “And a shilling at most for overtime—­meanin’ no offence—­”

Mr. Mortimer waved a hand.

“If,” said he, “it be a question of my rendering you any small service, I beg, my friend—­I command—­that all question of pecuniary recompense be left out of the discussion.”

Sam, feeling that he had to deal with a noble character, explained that the job was an easy one; merely to lead or ride one of the horses down the hauling-path to where the boat lay, to hitch on the tackle, cast off straps, pull up and ship the two crowbars to which they were made fast, and so take the tiller and steer home.  The horse knew his business, and would do the rest.

“And you can’t mistake the boat. Duchess of Teck is her name, an’ she lies about three ropes’ lengths this side of the iron bridge, just as you come abreast o’ the brick wall that belongs to the Orph’nage.”