The immediate advantage we took of this offer was to ask about whatever interested us in the landscape constantly passing before our eyes, or the barge-furniture at our feet.  The cord-compressed balls were shore-fenders, said Mr. Rowe, and were popped over the side when the barge was likely to grate against the shore, or against another vessel.

“Them’s osier-beds.  They cuts ’em every year or so for basket-work.  Wot’s that little bird a-hanging head downwards?  It’s a titmouse looking for insects, that is.  There’s scores on ’em in the osier-beds.  Aye, aye, the yellow lilies is pretty enough, but there’s a lake the other way—­a mile or two beyond your father’s, Master Fred—­where there’s white water-lilies.  They’re pretty, if you like!  It’s a rum thing in spring,” continued Mr. Rowe, between puffs of his pipe, “to see them lilies come up from the bottom of the canal; the leaves packed as neat as any parcel, and when they git to the top, they turns down and spreads out on the water as flat as you could spread a cloth upon a table.”

As a rule, Mr. Rowe could give us no names for the aquatic plants at which we clutched as we went by, nor for the shells we got out of the mud; but his eye for a water-rat was like a terrier’s.  It was the only thing which seemed to excite him.

About mid-day we stopped by a village, where Mr. Rowe had business.  The horse was to rest and bait here; and the barge-master told us that if we had “a shilling or so about” us, we might dine on excellent bread and cheese at the White Lion, or even go so far as poached eggs and yet more excellent bacon, if our resources allowed of it.  We were not sorry to go ashore.  There was absolutely no shelter on the deck of the barge from the sunshine, which was glaringly reflected by the water.  The inn parlour was low, but it was dark and cool.  I felt doubtful about the luxury even of cheese after that beefsteak-pie but Fred smacked his lips and ordered eggs and bacon, and I paid for them out of the canvas-bag.

As we sat together I said, “I wrote a letter to my mother, Fred. Did you write to Mrs. Johnson?”

Fred nodded, and pulled a scrap of dirty paper from his pocket, saying, “That’s the letter; but I made a tidy copy of it afterwards.”

I have said that Fred was below me in class, though he is older; and he was very bad at spelling.  Otherwise the letter did very well, except for smudges.

     “DEAR MOTHER,

“Charlie and I are going to run away at least by the time you get this we have run away but never mind for wen weve seen the wurld were cumming back we took the pi wich I hope you wont mind as we had no brekfust and I’ll bring back the dish we send our best love and I’ve no more to tell you to-day from your affectionate son FRED.”

I saw Mr. Rowe myself very busy in the bar of the White Lion, with a sheet of paper and an old steel pen, which looked as if the point had been attenuated