The neighbouring clocks were just striking nine in a sort of yelping
chorus to the heavy boom of Big Ben, which came floating down the river,
as Mrs. Bunker and the night watchman, staggering under a load of
luggage, slowly made their way on to the jetty. The barge, for such was
the craft in question, was almost level with the planks, while the
figures of two men darted to and fro in all the bustle of getting under
way.
"Bill," said the watchman, addressing the mate, "bear a hand with this
box, and be careful, it's got the wedding clothes inside."
The watchman was so particularly pleased with this little joke that in
place of giving the box to Bill he put it down and sat on it, shaking
convulsively with his hand over his mouth, while the blushing Matilda
and the discomfited captain strove in vain to appear unconcerned.
The packages were rather a tight squeeze for the cabin, but they managed
to get them in, and the skipper, with a threatening look at his mate,
who was exchanging glances of exquisite humour with the watchman, gave
his hand to Mrs. Bunker and helped her aboard.
"Welcome on the Sir Edmund Lyons, Mrs. Bunker," said he. "Bill, kick
that dawg back."
"Stop!" said Mrs. Bunker hastily, "that's my chapperong."
"Your what?" said the skipper.
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