of your precious cheek.”
Peter was always proud afterwards when he remembered that, with the Bargee’s furious fingers tightening on his ear, the Bargee’s crimson countenance close to his own, the Bargee’s hot breath on his neck, he had the courage to speak the truth.
“I wasn’t catching fish,” said Peter.
“That’s not your fault, I’ll be bound,” said the man, giving Peter’s ear a twist—not a hard one—but still a twist.
Peter could not say that it was. Bobbie and Phyllis had been holding on to the railings above and skipping with anxiety. Now suddenly Bobbie slipped through the railings and rushed down the bank towards Peter, so impetuously that Phyllis, following more temperately, felt certain that her sister’s descent would end in the waters of the canal. And so it would have done if the Bargee hadn’t let go of Peter’s ear—and caught her in his jerseyed arm.
“Who are you a-shoving of?” he said, setting her on her feet.
“Oh,” said Bobbie, breathless, “I’m not shoving anybody. At least, not on purpose. Please don’t be cross with Peter. Of course, if it’s your canal, we’re sorry and we won’t any more. But we didn’t know it was yours.”
“Go along with you,” said the Bargee.
“Yes, we will; indeed we will,” said Bobbie, earnestly; “but we do beg your pardon—and really we haven’t caught a single fish. I’d tell you directly if we had, honour bright I would.”
She held out her hands and Phyllis turned out her little empty pocket to show that really they hadn’t any fish concealed about them.
“Well,” said the Bargee, more gently, “cut along, then, and don’t you do it again, that’s all.”
The children hurried up the bank.
“Chuck us a coat, M’ria,” shouted the man. And a red-haired woman in a green plaid shawl came out from the cabin door with a baby in her arms and threw a coat to him. He put it on, climbed the bank, and slouched along across the bridge towards the village.
“You’ll find me up at the ‘Rose and Crown’ when you’ve got the kid to sleep,” he called to her from the bridge.
When he was out of sight the children slowly returned. Peter insisted on this.
“The canal may belong to him,” he said, “though I don’t believe it does. But the bridge is everybody’s. Doctor Forrest told me it’s public property. I’m not going to be bounced off the bridge by him or anyone else, so I tell you.”
Peter’s ear was still sore and so were his feelings.
The girls followed him as gallant soldiers might follow the leader of a forlorn hope.
“I do wish you wouldn’t,” was all they said.
“Go home if you’re afraid,” said Peter; “leave me alone. I’M not afraid.”
The sound of the man’s footsteps died away along the quiet road. The peace of the evening was not broken by the notes of the sedge-warblers or by the voice of the woman in the barge, singing her baby to sleep. It was a sad song she sang. Something about Bill Bailey and how she wanted him to come home.
The children stood leaning their arms on the parapet of the bridge; they were glad to be quiet for a few minutes because all three hearts were beating much more quickly.
“I’m not going to be driven away by any old bargeman, I’m not,” said Peter, thickly.
“Of course not,” Phyllis said soothingly; “you didn’t give in to him! So now we might go home, don’t you think?”
“No,” said Peter.
Nothing more was said till the woman got off the barge, climbed the bank, and came across the bridge.
She hesitated, looking at the three backs of the children, then she said, “Ahem.”
Peter stayed as he was, but the girls looked round.
“You mustn’t take no notice of my Bill,” said the woman; “’is bark’s worse’n ’is bite. Some of the kids down Farley way is fair terrors. It was them put ’is back up calling out about who ate the puppy-pie under Marlow bridge.”
“Who did?” asked Phyllis.
“I dunno,” said the woman. “Nobody don’t know! But somehow, and I don’t know the why nor the wherefore of it, them words is p’ison to a barge-master. Don’t you take no notice. ‘E won’t be back for two hours good. You might catch a power o’ fish afore that. The light’s good an’ all,” she added.
“Thank you,” said Bobbie. “You’re very kind. Where’s your baby?”
“Asleep in the cabin,” said the woman. “’E’s all right. Never wakes afore twelve. Reg’lar as a church clock, ’e is.”
“I’m sorry,” said Bobbie; “I would have liked to see him, close to.”
“And a finer you never did see, Miss, though I says it.” The woman’s face brightened as she spoke.
“Aren’t you afraid to leave it?” said Peter.
“Lor’ love you, no,” said the woman; “who’d hurt a little thing like ’im? Besides, Spot’s there. So long!”
The woman went away.
“Shall we go home?” said Phyllis.
“You can. I’m going to fish,” said Peter briefly.
“I thought we came up here to talk about Perks’s birthday,” said Phyllis.
“Perks’s birthday’ll keep.”
So they got down on the towing-path again and Peter fished. He did not catch anything.
It was almost quite dark, the girls were getting tired, and as Bobbie said, it was past bedtime, when suddenly Phyllis cried, “What’s that?”
And she pointed to the canal boat. Smoke was coming from the chimney of the cabin, had indeed been curling softly into the soft evening air all the time—but now other wreaths of smoke were rising, and these were from the cabin door.
“It’s on fire—that’s all,” said Peter, calmly. “Serve him right.”
“Oh—how can you?” cried Phyllis. “Think of the poor dear dog.”
“The baby!” screamed Bobbie.
In an instant all three made for the barge.
Her mooring ropes were slack, and the little breeze, hardly strong enough to be felt, had yet been strong enough to drift her stern against the bank. Bobbie was first—then came Peter, and it was Peter who slipped and fell. He went into the canal up to his neck, and his feet could not feel the bottom, but his arm was on the edge of the barge. Phyllis caught at his hair. It hurt,
