Life on the river seemed to breed taciturnity, and though we boys generally had something to say, for the most part we jogged on silently with the horses, who hung their heads and kept on their course as if half asleep. To me it was a dreamy time of constant journeying by the shining river; for at last we passed through a lock into the Isis, and then continued our way on and on through locks innumerable till we passed out again into what I suppose must have been the Grand Junction or Regent's Canal--to this day I am not sure which. The hundred miles or so I was to have walked to London must have been more than doubled by the turnings and doublings of the river; but I was never tired, and Jack never wearied of my society. There was always something to see in the ever-changing scenery, and sometimes, if we came to a stoppage early in the evening, Jack brought out a rough line and a willow wand, and we fished for perch by some rushing weir. I could have been content to go on for ever leading such a free, enjoyable life, like some young gipsy, so peaceable and happy seemed my existence as compared to that with Mr Blakeford; but at last, after a very long, slow journey, we began to near the metropolis, the goal of my wanderings, and one evening the pleasant communings of Jack and myself were suddenly brought to an end. We had been making slow progress along the canal as it wound now amongst houses and large buildings. The pleasant fields were far behind, and the water was no longer bright. It seemed, too, as if we had left the sun behind, while the tow-path had long grown so hard and rough that I was glad to get my boots out of the bundle in which they were tied up and wear them once again. "Here, you sir," Jack's father shouted to me from the barge, "you must sheer off now." It was said in a rough, peremptory fashion that was startling: but he took no further notice of me, only went on smoking, and I went back to Jack, who was now seated on the horse just as at our first meeting. "Feyther say you must go now?" "Yes," I said dolefully. "Then you'd better cut off. I say, feyther!" "Hullo!" "Lash the tiller, and go and get his bundle and chuck it ashore." The great rough fellow methodically did as he was told--fastening the rudder, going slowly forward, and fishing out my bundle from under the tarpaulin, and turning to me: "Ketch!" he shouted, and he threw the bundle from the barge to the shore, where I caught it, and he slowly plodded back, after giving me a friendly nod. I took my bundle under my arm and rejoined Jack, who was whistling his minor air, and then we boys looked at each other dolefully. "Aintcher going?" said Jack at last. "Yes," I said, "I'm going directly." Then, quickly pulling out a little penknife I had in my pocket, I held it to Jack. "Will you have that, Jack?" I said. His eyes sparkled as he took it, but he did not speak.