On the strand, in the gloom, stood a sturdy figure encumbered with a hat-box and a large parcel, so that both hands were engaged. “Are you John Pooke?” “To be sure I am.” In another moment the young fellow was beside the boat. “Here, Kitty Alone! Lend a hand. I’m crippled with these precious parcels. This blessed box-hat has given me trouble. The string came undone, and down it went. I have to carry the concern tucked under my arm; and the parcel’s bursting. It’s my new suit dying to show itself, and so is getting out of this brown-paper envelope as fast as it may.” “We are very late,” said Kate anxiously. “The tide is running out hard, and it is a chance if we get over.” “Right, Kitty. I’ll settle the hat-box and the new suit--brass buttons--what d’ye think of that? And straps to my trousers. I shall be fine--a blazer, Kitty--a blazer!” “Do sit down, John; it is but a chance if we get across. You are so late.” “The Atmospheric did it, for one--my hat for the other, tumbling in the darkness out of the box, and in the tunnel too. Fancy if the train had gone over it! I’d have wept tears of blood.” “Do, John Pooke, do sit down and take an oar.” “I’ll sit down in a minute, when I’ve put my box-hat where I nor you can kick it about, and the new suit where the water can’t stain it.” “John, you must take an oar.” “Right I am. We’ll make her fly--pist!--faster than the blessed Atmospheric, and no sticking half-way.” “I’m not so sure of that.” Kate thrust off. She had altered the pegs, and now she gave John an oar. “Pull for dear life!” she said; “not a moment is to be lost.” “Yoicks away!” shouted Pooke. “So we swim--Kitty Alone and I.” Kate, more easy now that the boat was started, said, “You asked me my name. I said Kate Quarm.” “Well, but everyone knows you as Kitty Alone.” “And every one knows you as Jan Tottle, but I shouldn’t have the face to so call you; and I don’t see why you should give me any name than what properly belongs to me.” “Your father always so calls you.” “You are not my father, and have no right to take liberties. My father may call me what he pleases, because he is my father. He is my father--you my penny fare.” “And the penny fare has no rights?” “He has right to be ferried over, not to be impudent.” Pooke whistled through his teeth. The girl laboured hard at the oar; Pooke worked more easily. He had not realised at first how uncertain was the passage. The tide went swirling down to the sea with the wind behind it, driving it as a besom. “I say, Kate Quarm--no, Miss Catherine Quarm. Hang it! how stiff and grand we be! Do you know why I have been to Exeter?” “I do not, Jan.” “There, you called me Jan. You’ll be ’titling me Tottle, next. That gives me a right to call you Kitty.” “Once, but no more; and Kitty only.” “I’ve been to Exeter to be rigged out for sister Sue’s weddin’. My word! it has cost four guineas to make a gentleman of me.” “Can they do that for four guineas?”