The river Till was a wide, sluggish, clayey water,
oozing out of fens, and in this part of its course
it strained among some score of willow-covered, marshy
islets.
It was a dingy stream; but upon this bright, spirited
morning everything was become beautiful. The
wind and the martens broke it up into innumerable
dimples; and the reflection of the sky was scattered
over all the surface in crumbs of smiling blue.
A creek ran up to meet the path, and close under the
bank the ferryman’s hut lay snugly. It
was of wattle and clay, and the grass grew green upon
the roof.
Dick went to the door and opened it. Within,
upon a foul old russet cloak, the ferryman lay stretched
and shivering; a great hulk of a man, but lean and
shaken by the country fever.
“Hey, Master Shelton,” he said, “be
ye for the ferry? Ill times, ill times!
Look to yourself. There is a fellowship abroad.
Ye were better turn round on your two heels and try
the bridge.”
“Nay; time’s in the saddle,” answered
Dick. “Time will ride, Hugh Ferryman.
I am hot in haste.”
“A wilful man!” returned the ferryman,
rising. “An ye win safe to the Moat House,
y’ have done lucky; but I say no more.”
And then catching sight of Matcham, “Who be
this?” he asked, as he paused, blinking, on
the threshold of his cabin.
“It is my kinsman, Master Matcham,” answered
Dick.
“Give ye good day, good ferryman,” said
Matcham, who had dismounted, and now came forward,
leading the horse. “Launch me your boat,
I prithee; we are sore in haste.”
The gaunt ferryman continued staring.
“By the mass!” he cried at length, and
laughed with open throat.
Matcham coloured to his neck and winced; and Dick,
with an angry countenance, put his hand on the lout’s
shoulder.
“How now, churl!” he cried. “Fall
to thy business, and leave mocking thy betters.”
Hugh Ferryman grumblingly undid his boat, and shoved
it a little forth into the deep water. Then
Dick led in the horse, and Matcham followed.
“Ye be mortal small made, master,” said
Hugh, with a wide grin; “something o’
the wrong model, belike. Nay, Master Shelton,
I am for you,” he added, getting to his oars.
“A cat may look at a king. I did but
take a shot of the eye at Master Matcham.”
“Sirrah, no more words,” said Dick.
“Bend me your back.”
They were by that time at the mouth of the creek,
and the view opened up and down the river. Everywhere
it was enclosed with islands. Clay banks were
falling in, willows nodding, reeds waving, martens
dipping and piping. There was no sign of man
in the labyrinth of waters.
“My master,” said the ferryman, keeping
the boat steady with one oar, “I have a shrew
guess that John-a-Fenne is on the island. He
bears me a black grudge to all Sir Daniel’s.
How if I turned me up stream and landed you an arrow-flight
above the path? Ye were best not meddle with
John Fenne.”
