“’ . . .  For Thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, for ever and ever.  Amen.’  Now we’ll go to sleep, and don’t be frightened when they harness up in an hour or two.  We’ll be in Stratford before daybreak.  Good night, my dears—­you may reach up and give me a kiss apiece if you ’re so minded; and I hope to goodness you don’t snore!”

When they awoke, sure enough Mrs. Lobb announced that they had reached Stratford.  In their dreams they had felt the van moving; but now it had come to a standstill, and, peeping forth, they saw that it stood in a broad green meadow and but a little way from a river.  There were swans on the river, paddling about or slowly drifting in the pale light; and across the river they saw many clustered roofs, with a church spire to the left set among noble elms.

“That’s where Shakespeare’s buried,” said the Fat Lady; “and the great brick building yonder—­to the right, between us and the bridge—­that’s the Memorial Theatre where they act his plays.  There’s his statue, too, beside the water, and back in the town they keep the house he was born in.  You can’t get away from Shakespeare here.  If you buy a bottle of beer, he’s on the label; and if you want a tobacco-jar, they’ll sell you his head and shoulders in china, with the bald top fitted for a cover.  It’s a queer place, is Stratford.”

The boy gazed.  To him it was a marvellous place; and somewhere it held his secret—­the secret of the Island.

“Talkin’ of beer,” said Tilda, “we mustn’ forget Sam Bossom.  At the ‘Red Cow,’ he said.”

“But that won’t be till evening,” the Fat Lady warned her.  “And meantime what am I to do with you.  You can’t hide here all day:  for one reason, I got to get up and dress.  And it may be dangerous in the town for you before nightfall.  Luckily, Gavel don’t know either one of you by sight; but there’s the chance of this Glasson havin’ come along with him.  For all I know, Gavel may have given him a shake-down, and Gavel’s is the next van but one.”

The children implored her to let them forth before the rest of the show-people awoke.  They would fend for themselves, Tilda engaged, and remain in hiding all day along the river-bank below the town.  Really, when the Fat Lady thought it over, this appeared the only feasible plan.  But first she insisted on cooking them a breakfast of fried sausages and boiled eggs, which she managed to do without stirring from her couch, directing Tilda how to light the stove, and where to find the utensils and the provender; and next she packed a basket for them with a loaf of bread and some slices of cold ham.

Thus furnished, they bade her good-bye for the day, left the dubious ’Dolph in her charge, and tip-toeing past the rear of the caravan where slept the dreaded Gavel, gained the meadow’s end, passed a weed-grown ruinated lock below the churchyard, and struck into a footpath that led down-stream between the river and a pretty hanging copse.  Below this a high road crossed the river.  Following it, they passed over a small tributary stream that wound between lines of pollard willows, and so headed off to their right and regained the Avon’s bank.