"Shut down the hole," Tilda panted, and catching sight of the iron cover, while the young man hesitated she began to drag at it with her own hands. "Steady on there!" he interposed. "I got five hundred more to deliver." "You don't deliver another shovelful till we're out o' this," said Tilda positively, stamping the cover in place and standing upon it for safety. "What's more, if anyone comes an' arsks a question, you ha'n't seen us." "Neither fur nor feather of ye," said the young man, and grinned. She cast a look at the boy; another up and down the towing-path. "Got such a thing as a cake o' soap hereabouts? You wouldn', I suppose--" and here she sighed impatiently. "I 'ave, though. Always keeps a bit in my trouser pocket." He produced it with pride. Said Tilda, "I don't know yername, but you're more like a Garden Angel than any I've met yet in your walk o' life. Hand it over, an' keep a look-out while I wash this child's face. I _can't_ take 'im through the streets in this state." She turned upon the boy. "Here, you just kneel down--so--with your face over the water, an' as near as you can manage." He obeyed in silence. He was still trembling. "That's right, on'y take care you don't overbalance." She knelt beside him, dipped both hands in the water, and began to work the soap into a lather. "What's the 'andiest way to the Good Samaritan?" she asked, speaking over her shoulder. "Meanin' the 'orspital?" "Yes." She took the boy's passive face between her hands and soaped it briskly. "The 'andiest way, _an'_ the quietest, for choice." "The 'andiest way," said the young coalheaver, after considering for half a minute, "an' the quietest, is for me to cast off the bow-straps here an' let her drop across stream. You can nip up through the garden yonder--it don't belong to nobody just now. That'll bring you out into a place called Pollard's Row, an' you turn straight off on your right. First turnin' opposite on the right by the 'Royal Oak,' which is a public-'ouse, second turnin' to the left after that, an' you're in Upper Town Street, an' from there to the Good Samaritan it's no more 'n a stone's throw." Tilda was silent for a few moments whilst she fixed these directions in her mind. "It do seem," she said graciously while she dried the boy's face with the skirt of her frock, "like as if you 'd dropped 'ere from 'eaven. What we should a-done without you, I can't think." "You'd best thank that dog o' your'n." The young man bent to cast off his rope. "He broke away from me once, an' I made sure I'd lost 'im. But by-an'-by back he came like a mad thing, an' no need to tell me you was inside there. He was neither to hold nor to bind, an' I do believe if he hadn't thought o' the manhole he'd 'a-broke the wall down, or elst his 'eart." "When I tell you 'e got me in as well as out--But, good sake, I musn' stand 'ere talkin'! Gimme my crutch, an' shove us across, that's a dear man."