‘But some things must be said,’ he exclaimed. ‘Is there still doubt of Tom’s being one of them, d’ye know?’ ‘None,’ and I repeated what the deputy-governor had said. ‘Still, I’ll watch the men as they come aboard,’ said he. ‘Where have you been since you left Stepney?’ ‘In a lodging at Woolwich.’ ‘What a wonder you are!’ He stepped back to run his eye over me and said: ‘They’ll never discover your sex whilst you stick to that dress.’ ‘Do your father and mother know I’ve left home?’ ‘Yes. Stanford called upon them. They plied me close, but I could not tell them what had become of you. They’ll board the next ship for Tasmania and see if you’re in her. Mother was at Deptford to bid me good-bye. She’s very well, thank God. And so’s father.’ He put his head through the door to peep along the decks, then pulling a piece of paper from his pockets, said: ‘See here, Marian; look at this sketch well, that you may remember it. It is the interior of your hiding-place. This square’s the hatch; those wormy-looking things on the left are coils of rope; those are cases and beyond are bolts of canvas. This stuff amidships is a quantity of twine. To the right are more casks; fresh water, of which we shall need plenty and to spare with two hundred and thirty convicts aboard, not to mention soldiers and sailors and women and children. This tracing is meant for spare sails. They’ll make you a comfortable bed. I’ve cut this end adrift,’ said he, putting his finger on the tracing, ‘so that you will be able to lie down and cover yourself over after groping and feeling about a bit. It’s devilish dark; that’s the worst of it. And here’s a great timber which terminates on deck in what we call a knight-head.’ ‘I know,’ said I. ‘You’ll find your stock of food and water stowed close against that timber, shored and hidden by a coil of rope.’ He opened his chest and handed me a knife for cutting tin. ‘You’ll want this,’ said he, ‘for the canned grub; it’s mostly soup and bully. You’ll find a pannikin for the water. I’ll visit you as often as I can. Have you a watch?’ ‘No. I’m a stowaway. I have run away in poverty and must act the part. Keep this for me, Will,’ and I gave him what money I had. ‘The cook’s mate will be up and down for coal,’ said he, pocketing the money. ‘You’ll get light when they lift the hatch, then you’ll hear voices and see people. Shrink out of sight. Lie small, or all this trouble will have been for no good.’ ‘If it should happen that Tom’s not one of them, you’ll contrive to let me know before we’re out of the Channel?’ ‘Trust me, old girl.’ ‘If he is one of them, you’ll let me know when it will be safe to come out of hiding?’