Thomas Blake was as obviously the man for me here as Sidney Price had been in the case of my Society dialogues. The public would find something infinitely piquant in the thought that its most sentimental ditties were given to it by the horny-handed steerer of a canal barge. He would be greeted as the modern Burns. People would ask him how he thought of his poems, and he would say, “Oo-er!” and they would hail him as delightfully original. In the case of Thomas Blake I saw my earnings going up with a bound. His personality would be a noble advertisement. He was aboard the _Ashlade_ or _Lechton_ on the Cut, so I was informed by Kit. Which information was not luminous to me. Further inquiries, however, led me to the bridge at Brentford, whence starts that almost unknown system of inland navigation which extends to Manchester and Birmingham. Here I accosted at a venture a ruminative bargee. “Tom Blake?” he repeated, reflectively. “Oh! ’e’s been off this three hours on a trip to Braunston. He’ll tie up tonight at the Shovel.” “Where’s the Shovel?” “Past Cowley, the Shovel is.” This was spoken in a tired drawl which was evidently meant to preclude further chit-chat. To clinch things, he slouched away, waving me in an abstracted manner to the towpath. I took the hint. It was now three o’clock in the afternoon. Judging by the pace of the barges I had seen, I should catch Blake easily before nightfall. I set out briskly. An hour’s walking brought me to Hanwell, and I was glad to see a regular chain of locks which must have considerably delayed the _Ashlade_ and _Lechton_. The afternoon wore on. I went steadily forward, making inquiries as to Thomas’s whereabouts from the boats which met me, and always hearing that he was still ahead. Footsore and hungry, I overtook him at Cowley. The two boats were in the lock. Thomas and a lady, presumably his wife, were ashore. On the _Ashlade_’s raised cabin cover was a baby. Two patriarchal-looking boys were respectively at the _Ashlade_’s and _Lechton_’s tillers. The lady was attending to the horse. The water in the lock rose gradually to a higher level. “Hold them tillers straight!” yelled Thomas. At which point I saluted him. He was a little blank at first, but when I reminded him of our last meeting his face lit up at once. “Why, you’re the mister wot——” “Nuppie!” came in a shrill scream from the lady with the horse. “Nuppie!” “Yes, Ada!” answered the boy on the _Ashlade_. “Liz ain’t tied to the can. D’you want ’er to be drownded? Didn’t I tell you to be sure and tie her up tight?” “So I did, Ada. She’s untied herself again. Yes, she ’as. ’Asn’t she, Albert?” This appeal for corroboration was directed to the other small boy on the _Lechton_. It failed signally. “No, you did not tie Liz to the chimney. You know you never, Nuppie.” “Wait till we get out of this lock!” said Nuppie, earnestly.