“No, a house-boat,” I gasped.     

       “Didn't see nuthin' like it,” said the man, and he passed on, to his wife and home, no doubt. But me! Oh, where was my wife and my home?     

       I met several people, but none of them had seen a fugitive canal-boat.     

       How many thoughts came into my brain as I ran along that river road! If that wretched boarder had not taken the rudder for an ironing table he might have steered in shore! Again and again I confounded—as far as mental ejaculations could do it—his suggestions.     

       I was rapidly becoming frantic when I met a person who hailed me.     

       “Hello!” he said, “are you after a canal-boat adrift?”      

       “Yes,” I panted.     

       “I thought you was,” he said. “You looked that way. Well, I can tell you where she is. She's stuck fast in the reeds at the lower end o' Peter's Pint.”      

       “Where's that?” said I.     

       “Oh, it's about a mile furder up. I seed her a-driftin' up with the tide—big flood tide, to-day—and I thought I'd see somebody after her, afore long. Anything aboard?”      

       Anything!     

       I could not answer the man. Anything, indeed! I hurried on up the river without a word. Was the boat a wreck? I scarcely dared to think of it. I scarcely dared to think at all.     

       The man called after me and I stopped. I could but stop, no matter what I might hear.     

       “Hello, mister,” he said, “got any tobacco?”      

       I walked up to him. I took hold of him by the lapel of his coat. It was a dirty lapel, as I remember even now, but I didn't mind that.     

       “Look here,” said I. “Tell me the truth, I can bear it. Was that vessel wrecked?”      

       The man looked at me a little queerly. I could not exactly interpret his expression.     

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