“But what can be done? You say he’s sailed; what can be done?” But she spoke louder, and in a more life-like tone.
“No! I did not say he’d sailed; mother said that, and women know nought about such matters. You see” (proud of his office of instructor, and insensibly influenced, as all about her were, by Mary’s sweet, earnest, lovely countenance), “there’s sandbanks at the mouth of the river, and ships can’t get over them but at high-water; especially ships of heavy burden, like the John Cropper. Now she was tugged down the river at low water, or pretty near, and will have to lie some time before the water will be high enough to float her over the banks. So hold up your head,—you’ve a chance yet, though, maybe, but a poor one.”
“But what must I do?” asked Mary, to whom all this explanation had been a vague mystery.
“Do!” said the boy impatiently, “why, have not I told you? Only women (begging your pardon) are so stupid at understanding about anything belonging to the sea;—you must get a boat, and make all haste, and sail after him, —after the John Cropper. You may overtake her, or you may not. It’s just a chance; but she’s heavy laden, and that’s in your favour. She’ll draw many feet of water.”
Mary had humbly and eagerly (oh, how eagerly!) listened to this young Sir Oracle’s speech; but try as she would, she could only understand that she must make haste, and sail—somewhere.
“I beg your pardon,” (and her little acknowledgment of inferiority in this speech pleased the lad, and made him her still more zealous friend). “I beg your pardon,” said she, “but I don’t know where to get a boat. Are there boat- stands?”
The lad laughed outright.
“You’re not long in Liverpool, I guess. Boat-stands! No; go down to the pier,—any pier will do, and hire a boat,—you’ll be at no loss when once you are there. Only make haste.”
“Oh, you need not tell me that, if I but knew how,” said Mary, trembling with eagerness. “But you say right,—I never was here before, and I don’t know my way to the place you speak on; only tell me, and I’ll not lose a minute.”
“Mother!” said the wilful lad, “I’m going to show her the way to the pier; I’ll be back in an hour,—or so,” he added in a lower tone.
And before the gentle Mrs. Jones could collect her scattered wits sufficiently to understand half of the hastily- formed plan, her son was scudding down the street, closely followed by Mary’s half-running steps.
Presently he slackened his pace sufficiently to enable him to enter into conversation with Mary, for once escaped from the reach of his mother’s recalling voice, he thought he might venture to indulge his curiosity.
“Ahem!—What’s your name? It’s so awkward to be calling you young woman.”
“My name is Mary,—Mary Barton,” answered she, anxious to propitiate one who seemed so willing to exert himself in her behalf, or else she grudged every word which caused the slightest relaxation in her speed, although her chest seemed tightened, and her head throbbing, from the rate at which they were walking.
“And you want Will Wilson to prove an alibi—is that it?”
“Yes—oh, yes,—can we not cross now?”
“No, wait a minute; it’s the teagle hoisting above your head I’m afraid of; and who is it that’s to be tried?”
“Jem; oh, lad! can’t we get past?”
They rushed under the great bales quivering in the air above their heads and pressed onward for a few minutes, till Master Charley again saw fit to walk a little slower, and ask a few more questions.
“Mary, is Jem your brother, or your sweetheart, that you’re so set upon saving him?”
“No—no,” replied she, but with something of hesitation, that made the shrewd boy yet more anxious to clear up the mystery.
“Perhaps he’s your cousin, then? Many a girl has a cousin who has not a sweetheart.”
“No, he’s neither kith nor kin to me. What’s the matter? What are you stopping for?” said she, with nervous terror, as Charley turned back a few steps, and peered up a side street.
“Oh, nothing to flurry you so, Mary. I heard you say to mother you had never been in Liverpool before, and if you’ll only look up this street you may see the back windows of our Exchange. Such a building as yon is! with ‘natomy hiding under a blanket, and Lord Admiral Nelson, and a few more people in the middle of the court! No! come here,” as Mary, in her eagerness, was looking at any window that caught her eye first, to satisfy the boy. “Here then, now you can see it. You can say, now, you’ve seen Liverpool Exchange.”
“Yes, to be sure—it’s a beautiful window, I’m sure. But are we near the boats? I’ll stop as I come back, you know; only I think we’d better get on now.”
“Oh! if the wind’s in your favour you’ll be down the river in no time, and catch Will, I’ll be bound; and if it’s not, why, you know the minute it took you to look at the Exchange will be neither here nor there.”
Another rush onwards, till one of the long crossings near the Docks caused a stoppage, and gave Mary time for breathing, and Charley leisure to ask another question.
“You’ve never said where you come from?”
“Manchester,” replied she.
“Eh, then! you’ve a power of things to see. Liverpool beats Manchester hollow, they say. A nasty, smoky hole, bean’t it? Are you bound to live there?”
“Oh, yes! it’s my home.”
“Well, I don’t think I could abide a home in the middle of smoke. Look there! now you see the river. That’s something now you’d give a deal for in Manchester. Look!”
And Mary did look, and saw down an opening made in the forest of masts belonging to the vessels in dock, the glorious river, along which white-sailed ships were gliding with the ensigns of all nations, not “braving the battle,” but telling of the distant lands, spicy or frozen, that sent to that mighty mart for their comforts or their luxuries; she
