We found an unexpected clog in Mr. Smith, who seemed inclined to stick
to us and repeat the stories he had told us overnight. At about
half-past eight, however, he went off to his boat, saying he supposed
we should wait for Mr. Rowe, and when his wife went into a neighbour's
house I laid a shilling on the table, and Fred and I slipped out and
made our way to the pier.
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.
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