Peter eyed them without speaking.  He was fond of money, and even half-a-crown represented a good deal to him.  But he shook his head.

“I’m not going to take nothing of that,” he said; “you’re not yet at your journey’s end.  I won’t say but what I’d take a something, and gladly, from the old gentleman if he sees fit to send it when he’s heard all about it.  A letter’ll always get to me, sooner or later, at the ‘Bargeman’s Rest,’ Crookford.  You can remember that—­Peter Toft—­that’s my name.”

“I’ll not forget, you may be sure,” said Tim.  “It’s very good of you not to take any, for it’s true, as you say, we may need it.  And so you think too it’s best to go straight to the police at Monkhaven.”

“I do so,” said Peter, and thus it was settled.

There were some tears, as might have been expected, and not only on the children’s part, when they came to say good-bye to Mrs. Peter and the baby.  But they soon dried in the excitement of getting on shore again and setting off under Tim’s care on the last stage of their journey “home.”

“Is it a very long walk, do you think, Tim?” they asked.  “Us knows the way a long way down the Sandle’ham road.  Is that Sandle’ham?” as they saw the roofs and chimneys of Monkhaven before them.

“I wish it were!” said Tim.  “No, that’s a place they call Monkhaven, but it’s on the road to Sandle’ham.  Did you never hear tell of Monkhaven, master and missy?—­think now.”

But after “thinking” for half a quarter of the second, the two fair heads gave it up.

“No; us had never heard of Monkhaven.  What did it matter?  Us would much rather go straight home.”

Then Tim had to enter upon an explanation.  He did not know the nearest way to Sandle’ham, and they might wander about the country, losing their way.  They had very little money, and it most likely was too far to walk.  He was afraid to ask unless sure it was of some one he could trust; for Mick might have sent word to some one at Monkhaven about them.  Then after Sandle’ham, which way were they to go?  There was but one thing to do—­ask the police.  The police would take care of them and set them on the way.

But oh, poor Tim!  Little did he know the effect of that fatal word, and yet he had far more reason to dread the police than the twins could have.  More than once he had only just escaped falling into its clutches, and all through his vagrant life he had of course come to regard its officers as his natural enemies.  But he had put all that aside, and, strong in his good cause, was ready now to turn to them as the children’s protectors.  Duke and Pamela, on the contrary, who had no real reason for being afraid of the police, were in frantic terror; their poor little imaginations set to work and pictured “prison” as where they were sure to be sent to.  They would rather go back to the gipsies, they would rather wander about the fields with Tim till they died—­rather anything than