It appeared as they lifted him ashore that the Doctor, beside the inconvenience of a stomachful of dirty canal water, was suffering considerable pain.  In his fright (the dog had not actually bitten him) he had blundered, and struck his knee-cap violently against a bollard close by the water’s edge, and staggering under the anguish of it, had lost his footing and collapsed overboard.  Then, finding that his fingers could take no hold on the slippery concrete wall of the basin, with his sound leg he had pushed himself out from it and grasped the barge’s head-rope.  All this, between groans, he managed to explain to the policeman, who, having sent for an ambulance stretcher, called for volunteers to carry him home; for home Dr. Glasson insisted on being taken, putting aside—­and with great firmness—­the suggestion that he would be better in hospital.

Sam Blossom was among the first to offer his services.  But here his master interposed.

“No, no, my lad,” said Mr. Hucks genially, “you’ve behaved pretty creditable already, and now you can give the others a turn.  The man’s all right, or will be by to-morrow; and as it happens,” he added in a lower tone, “I want five minutes’ talk with you, and at once.”

They watched while the sufferer was hoisted into his stretcher.  So the escort started, the policeman walking close behind and the crowd following the policeman.

“Now,” said Mr. Hucks as they passed out of sight, “you’ll just step into the yard and answer a few questions.  You too, sir,” he turned to Mr. Mortimer and led the way.  “Hullo!”—­he let out a kick at Godolphus snuffling at the yard gate, and Godolphus, smitten on the ribs, fled yelping.  “Who the devil owns that cur?” demanded Mr. Hucks, pushing the gate open.

“I do,” answered a voice just within, close at his elbow.  “An’ I’ll arsk you not to fergit it.  Ought to be ashamed o’ yerself, kickin’ a pore dumb animal like that!”

“Eh?” Mr. Hucks passed down into the darkness.  “Sam, fetch a lantern . . .  So you ‘re the young lady I saw just now inside o’ the van, and unless I’m mistaken, a nice job you’re responsible for.”

Tilda nodded.  ’Dolph’s indiscretion had put her in a desperate fix; but something told her that her best chance with this man was to stand up to him and show fight.

“Is he drowned?” she asked.

“Drowned?  Not a bit of it.  Only a trifle wet, and a trifle scared—­ thanks to that poor dumb animal of yours.  A trifle hurt, too.”

“I’m sorry he wasn’t drowned,” said Tilda.

“Well, you ’re a nice Christian child, I must say.  Start with kidnappin’, and then down on your luck because you haven’t wound up with murder!  Where’s the boy you stole?”

“In the caravan.”

“Fetch him out.”

“Shan’t!”

“Now look here, missie—­”

“I shan’t,” repeated Tilda.  “Oh, Mr. Bossom, you won’t let them!  They’re strong, I know . . . but he’s got a knife that he took when Mr. Mortimer’s back was turned, and if they try to drag ’im back to that Orph’nige—­”