Rupert was lying under the crab-tree, and Henrietta was reading to him, when I went away.  Rupert was getting much stronger; he could walk with a stick, and was going back to school next half.  I felt a very unreasonable vexation because they seemed quite cheerful.  But as I was leaving the garden to go over the fields, Baby Cecil came running after me, with his wooden spade in one hand and a plant of chick weed in the other, crying:  “Charlie, dear!  Come and tell Baby Cecil a story.”  I kissed him, and tied his hat on, which had come off as he ran.

“Not now, Baby,” I said; “I am going out now, and you are gardening.”

“I don’t want to garden,” he pleaded.  “Where are you going?  Take me with you.”

“I am going to Fred Johnson’s,” I said bravely.

Baby Cecil was a very good child, though he was so much petted.  He gave a sigh of disappointment, but only said very gravely, “Will you promise, onyer-onner, to tell me one when you come back?”

“I promise to tell you lots when I come back, on my honour,” was my answer.

I had to skirt the garden-hedge for a yard or two before turning off across the meadow.  In a few minutes I heard a voice on the other side.  Baby Cecil had run down the inside, and was poking his face through a hole, and kissing both hands to me.  There came into my head a wonder whether his face would be much changed next time I saw it.  I little guessed when and how that would be.  But when he cried, “Come back very soon, Charlie dear,” my imperfect valour utterly gave way, and hanging my head I ran, with hot tears pouring over my face, all the way to Johnson’s wharf.

When Fred saw my face he offered to give up the idea if I felt faint-hearted about it.  Nothing that he could have said would have dried my tears so soon.  Every spark of pride in me blazed up to reject the thought of turning craven now.  Besides, I longed for a life of adventure most sincerely; and I was soon quite happy again in the excitement of being so near to what I had longed for.

CHAPTER VIII.

WE GO ON BOARD—­THE PIE—­AN EXPLOSION—­MR. ROWE THE BARGE-MASTER—­THE ’WHITE LION’—­TWO LETTERS—­WE DOUBT MR. ROWE’S GOOD FAITH.

The dew was still heavy on the grass when Fred and I crossed the drying-ground about five o’clock on Thursday morning, and scrambled through a hedge into our “coastguard” corner on the wharf.  We did not want to be seen by the barge-master till we were too far from home to be put ashore.

The freshness of early morning in summer has some quality which seems to go straight to the heart.  I felt intensely happy.  There lay the barge, the sun shining on the clean deck, and from the dewy edges of the old ropes, and from the barge-master’s zinc basin and pail put out to sweeten in the air.

“She won’t leave us behind this time!” I cried, turning triumphantly to Fred.