“Six-seven-nine,” answered Sam as he caught up with her.

“Clear?”

Sam nodded.  “Barrin’, o’ course, the bill for to-night’s board an’ lodgin’.”

“’—­Up to date ’e ’as paid S. Bossom over six pound, and ’as picked up with an engagement ’ere.  Dear sir, you will see there’s no risk, and S. Bossom will stay ‘ere a week an’ collect the balance.’”

“The Lord forbid!” Sam protested, laying down his pen.

“I’d like to know oo’s writin’ this letter—­you or me?” She pointed to the paper.  “Go on, please.  ’Dear sir, a party as we will call W. B. ‘as joined the company.  W’ich is strange to say—­’”

“Who’s he?”

Sam looked up again, but Tilda’s finger still pointed firmly.

“’W’ich ’e too continues ’earty; but You-know-Oo is close after ’im; and so, dear sir, ‘avin’ ’eard of an Island called ’Olmness, we are off there to-morrow, and will let you know further.  W’ich I remain yours respectfully—­’ Now ‘and over the pen an’ let me sign.”

“’Olmness?  Where’s ’Olmness?”

She took the pen from him and slowly printed TILDA, in roman capitals; examined the signature, made sure it was satisfactory, and at length answered—­

“It’s a Island, somewhere in the Bristol Channel, w’ich is in the Free Library.  We’ve just come from there.”

“An’ you reckon I got nothin’ better to do than go gallivantin’ with you, lookin’ for islands in the Bristol Channel?”

“—­W’en I said, on’y a minute back,” she answered with composure, “that we were leavin’ you in Stratford for a week.”

“Ho!” he commented scornfully.  “Leavin’ me, are you? You leavin’ me? . . .  Well, if that ain’t good, I declare!”

She looked at him as one disdaining argument.

“I’ll tell you all about it termorrow.  Let’s ’ave in supper now; for we’re ‘ungry, Arthur Miles an’ me, an’ the Fat Lady’ll be expectin’ us.  Between two an’ three miles down the river there’s a lock, near a place they call Weston—­you know it, I reckon?  Well, meet us there termorrow—­say eight o’clock—­an’ we’ll ’ave a talk.”

“The child,” said Mr. Mortimer, “has evidently something up her sleeve, and my advice is that we humour her.”

Tilda eyed him.

“Yes, that’s right,” she assented with unmoved countenance. “’Ave in supper and ’umour me.”

The supper consisted of two dishes—­the one of tripe-and-onions, the other of fried ham.  There were also potatoes and beer, and gin, Mr. Mortimer being a sufferer from some complaint which made this cordial, as Mrs. Mortimer assured them, “imperative.”  But to-night, “to celebrate the reunion,” Mr. Mortimer chose to defy the advice of the many doctors—­“specialists” Mrs. Mortimer called them—­who had successively called his a unique case; and after a tough battle—­his wife demurring on hygienic, Sam on financial, grounds—­ordered in a bottle of port, at the same time startling the waitress with the demand that it must not be such as that—­