Tilda took a turn at considering.

“The further I go on this v’yage,” she announced,—­“w’ich, per’aps, ’twould be truthfuller to say the longer it takes—­the more I seems to get mixed up in other folks’ business.  But you’ve done me a good turn, Sam Bossom; an’ you’ve been open with me; an’ I reckon I got to keep you straight in this ‘ere.  There! put up yer verses while I sit an’ think it out.”

“You don’t like ’em?”

Sam was evidently dashed.

“If on’y I ’ad Bill ’ere—­”

“Ha, yes:  ’im! ’E’d put a boiler inside ’em, no doubt; an’ a donkey-engin’, an’—­”

“What’yer talkin’ about? . . .  Oh, yer verses!  Bless the man, I wasn’ thinkin’ of yer verses.  I was wantin’ Bill ‘ere, to advise somethin’ practical.  Lor’ sake!  Look at Arthur Miles there, the way ‘e’s leanin’ overboard!  The child’ll drown’ isself, nex’ news!” She rose up and ran to prevent the disaster. “‘Pears to me there’s a deal o’ motherin’ to be done aboard this boat.  Trouble aft, an’ trouble forrard—­”

She was hurrying aft when Mr. Mortimer intercepted her amidships.  He held a book in one hand, and two slips of paper in the other.

“Child,” he asked, “could you learn a part?—­a very small part?”

“‘Course I could,” answered Tilda promptly; “but I ain’t goin’ to play it, an’ don’t yer make any mistake.  ’Ere, let me get to Arthur Miles before ’e tumbles overboard.”

She darted aft and dragged the boy back by his collar.

“What d’yer mean by it, givin’ folks a shock like that?” she demanded.

“I was looking at the pictures,” he explained, and showed her.

The Success to Commerce bore on her stern panels two gaily painted landscapes, the one of Warwick Castle, the other of ruined Kenilworth.  Tilda leaned over the side and saw them mirrored in the still water.

“And then,” the boy pursued, “down below the pictures I saw a great ship lying in the seaweed with guns and drowned men on the deck and the fishes swimming over them.  Deep in the ship a bell was tolling—­”

“Nonsense!” Tilda interrupted, and catching up a pole, thrust it down overside.  “Four feet at the most,” she reported, as the pole found bottom.  “You must be sickenin’ for somethin’.  Put out your tongue.”

“A child of imagination,” observed Mr. Mortimer, who had followed her.  “Full fathom five thy father lies—­”

“’Ush!” cried Tilda.

“—­Of his bones are coral made.  Those are pearls that were his eyes—­”

The boy sat and looked up at the speaker, staring, shivering a little.

“You know?  You know too?” he stammered.

“He knows nothin’ about it,” insisted Tilda.  “Please go away, Mr. Mortimer?”

“A young Shakespearian?  This is indeed delightful!  You shall have a part, sir.  Your delivery will be immature, doubtless; but with some tuition from me—­”