Mr. Rowe was not there, and a church clock near struck nine.  This was echoed from the city more than once, and then we began to look anxiously for the steamer.  Five, ten minutes must have passed—­they seemed hours to me—­when I asked a man who was waiting also when the steamer from London Bridge would come.

“She’ll be here soon,” said he.

“So will old Rowe,” whispered Fred.

But the steamer came first, and we went on board; and the paddles began to splash, and our escape was accomplished.

It was a lovely morning, and the tall, dirty old houses looked almost grand in the sunlight as we left Nine Elms.  The distant city came nearer and shone brighter, and when the fretted front of the Houses of Parliament went by us like a fairy palace, and towers and blocks of buildings rose solidly one behind another in shining tints of white and grey against the blue summer sky, and when above the noise of our paddle-wheels came the distant roar of the busy streets—­Fred pressed the arm I had pushed through his and said, “We’re out in the world at last!”

CHAPTER XII.

EMERGENCIES AND POLICEMEN—­FENCHURCH STREET STATION—­THIRD CLASS TO CUSTOM HOUSE—­A SHIP FOREST.

Policemen are very useful people.  I do not know how we should have got from the London Bridge Pier to the Fenchurch Street Station if it had not been that Fred told me he knew one could ask policemen the way to places.  There is nothing to pay, which I was very glad of, as the canvas bag was getting empty.

Once or twice they helped us through emergencies.  We had to go from one footpath to another, straight across the street, and the street was so full of carts and cabs and drays and omnibuses, that one could see that it was quite an impossibility.  We did it, however, for the policeman made us.  I said, “Hadn’t we better wait till the crowd has gone?” But the policeman laughed, and said then we had better take lodgings close by and wait at the window.  So we did it.  Fred said the captain once ran in a little cutter between two big ships that were firing into him, but I do not think that can have been much worse than running between a backing dray, full of rolling barrels, and a hansom cab pulled up and ramping like a rocking-horse at the lowest point of the rockers.

When we were safely on the other pavement we thanked the policeman very much, and then went on, asking our way till we got to Fenchurch Street.

If anything could smell nastier than John’s berth in Nine Elms it is Fenchurch Street Station.  And I think it is worse in this way; John’s berth smelt horrible, but it was warm and weather-tight.  You never swallow a drop of pure air in Fenchurch Street Station, and yet you cannot find a corner in which you can get out of the draughts.

With one gale blowing on my right from an open door, and another gale blowing on my left down some steps, and nasty smells blowing from every point of the compass, I stood at a dirty little hole in a dirty wooden wall and took our tickets.  I had to stand on tiptoe to make the young man see me.