read a newspaper, as passengers pace to and fro, is the stranger, seated on one of the side seats.  The engineer moves his valve now and then, the cross-head ascends, the steam hisses below, the condenser rumbles, the steam from the funnel roars furiously forth, spreading its scalding vapour through the air.  Again, the man, almost imperceptibly touches the iron rod with his finger, the magic monster again moves its piston downward, the wheels make a turn, the massive vessel surges upon her lines, as if eager to press forward on her course.  Another gentle touch, and, obeying the summons, the motive power is still; the man subjects the monster with his little finger.  He has stopped her near the centre, where, with a slight touch, he can turn back or forward.  Again, he lifts a small key, and the steam, with a deafening roar, issues from the escape:  he is venting his chest.  Simultaneously the second bell sounds forth its clanking medley:  two minutes more, and the snake-like craft will be buffeting the waves, on her daily errand.  As passengers begin to muster on board, their friends clustering round the capsill of the wharf, obstructing the way, the sturdy figure of Mr. Pringle Blowers may be seen behind a spile near the capsill, his sharp, peering eyes scanning the ship from fore to aft.  He is not sure she will get off by this route; common sense tells him that, but there exists a prompting something underneath common sense telling him it’s money saved to keep a sharp look-out.  And this he does merely to gratify that inert something, knowing at the same time that, having no money, no person will supply her, and she must be concealed in the swamps, where only “niggers” will relieve her necessities.  At this moment Rosebrook’s carriage may be seen driving to the ticket office at the head of the wharf, where Rosebrook, with great coolness, gets out, steps within the railing, and procures the tickets in his own name.  Again taking his seat, the mate, who stands on the capsill of the wharf, now and then casting a glance up, cries out, “Another carriage coming!” Bradshaw cracks his whip, and the horses dash down the wharf, scatter the people who have gathered to see the boat off, as a dozen black porters, at the mate’s command, rush round the carriage, seize the baggage, and hurry it on board.  Rosebrook, fearing his friends will lose their passage, begs people to clear the gangway, and almost runs on board, his fugitive charge clinging to his arms.  The captain stands at the gangway, and recognising the late comer, makes one of his blandest bows:  he will send a steward to show them a good state-room.  “Keep close till the boat leaves, and remember there is a world before you,” Rosebrook says, shaking Annette by the hand, as she returns, “God bless good master!” They are safe in the state-room:  he kisses Franconia’s cheek, shuts the door, and, hurrying back, regains the wharf just as the last bell strikes, and the gangway is being carried on board.