The town contained but few objects of interest. Before the advent of railways it had been a thriving port with a considerable trade; now its streets were sleepy and its wharves deserted. Besides the _Seamew_ the only other craft in the river was a tiny sloop, the cargo of which two men were unloading by means of a basket and pulley and a hand truck. The quietude told upon Henry, who, after a modest half-pint, lit his pipe and sauntered along the narrow High Street with his hands in his pockets. A short walk brought him to the white hurdles of the desolate market-place. Here the town as a town ended and gave place to a few large houses standing in their own grounds. “Well, give me London,” said Henry to himself as he paused at a high brick wall and looked at the fruit trees beyond. “Why, the place seems dead!” He scrambled up on to the wall, and, perched on the top, whistled softly. The grown-up flavor of half-pints had not entirely eradicated a youthful partiality for apples. He was hidden from the house by the trees, and almost involuntarily he dropped down on the other side of the wall and began to fill his pockets with the fruit. Things were so quiet that he became venturesome, and, imitating the stealthy movement of the Red Indian, whom he loved, so far as six or seven pounds of apples would allow him, made his way to a large summer-house and peeped in. It was empty, except for a table and a couple of rough benches, and after another careful look round, he entered, and seating himself on the bench, tried an apple. He was roused to a sense of the danger of his position by footsteps on the path outside, which, coming nearer and nearer, were evidently aimed at the summer-house. With a silence and celerity of which any brave would have been proud, he got under the table. “There you are, you naughty little girl,” said a woman’s voice. “You will not come out until you know your rivers perfectly.” Somebody was pushed into the summer-house, the door slammed behind, and a key turned in the lock. The footsteps retreated again, and the embarrassed brave realized that he was in a cruelly false position, his very life, so to speak, depending on the strength a small girl’s scream. “I don’t care!” said a dogged voice. “Bother your rivers! bother your rivers! bother your rivers!” The owner of the voice sat on the table and hummed fiercely. In the stress of mental anguish caused by his position, Henry made a miscalculation, and in turning bumped the table heavily with his head. “Ough!” said the small girl breathlessly. “Don’t be frightened,” said Henry, popping up humbly; “I won’t hurt you.” “Hoo!” said the small girl in a flutter; “a boy!” Henry rose and seated himself respectfully, coughing confusedly, as he saw the small girl’s gaze riveted on his pockets. “What have you got in your pockets?” she asked. “Apples,” said Henry softly. “I bought ’em in the town.”