for it?" snapped Homily.
"I got a boat," said Spiller.
"Oh, my goodness..." murmured Homily, suddenly deflated.
"Big?" asked Pod.
"Fair," said Spiller.
"Could she take passengers?" asked Pod.
"Could do," said Spiller.
"Oh, my goodness..." murmured Homily again.
"What's the matter, Homily?" asked Pod.
"Can't see myself in a boat," said Homily. "Not on the water, I can't."
"Well, a boat's not much good on dry land," said Pod. "To get something, you got to risk something—that's how it goes. We got to find somewhere to live."
"There might be something, say, in walking distance," faltered Homily.
"Such as?"
"Well," said Homily unhappily, throwing a quick glance at Spiller, "say, for instance ... Spiller's kettle."
"Not much accommodation in a kettle," said Pod.
"More than there was in a boot," retorted Homily.
"Now, Homily," said Pod, suddenly firm, "you wouldn't be happy, not for twenty-four hours, in a kettle; and inside a week you'd be on at me night and day to find some kind of craft to get you downstream to Little Fordham. Here you are with the chance of a good home, fresh start, and a free passage, and all you do is go on like a maniac about a drop of clean running water. Now, if it was the drain you objected to—"
Homily turned to Spiller. "What sort of boat?" she asked nervously. "I mean, if I could picture it like..."
Spiller thought a moment. "Well," he said, "it's wooden."
"Yes?" said Homily.
Spiller tried again. "Well, it's like ... you might say it was something like a knife box."
"How much like?" asked Pod.
"Very like," said Spiller.
"In fact," declared Homily triumphantly, "it is a knife box?"
Spiller nodded. "That's right," he admitted.
"Flat-bottomed?" asked Pod.
"With divisions, like, for spoons, forks, and so on?" put in Homily.
"That's right," agreed Spiller, replying to both.
"Tarred and waxed at the seams?"
"Waxed," said Spiller.
"Sounds all right to me," said Pod. "What do you say, Homily?" It sounded better to her too, Pod realized, but he saw she was not quite ready to commit herself. He turned again to Spiller. "What do you do for power?"
"Power?"
"Got some kind of sail?"
Spiller shook his head. "Take her downstream, loaded—with a paddle; pole her back upstream in ballast...."
"I see," said Pod. He sounded rather impressed. "You go often to Little Fordham?"
"Pretty regular," said Spiller.
"I see," said Pod again. "Sure you could give us a lift?"
"Call back for you," said Spiller, "at the kettle, say. Got to go upstream to load."
"Load what?" asked Homily bluntly.
"The boat," said Spiller.
"I know that," said Homily, "but with what?"
"Now, Homily," put in Pod, "that's Spiller's business. No concern of ours. Does a bit of trading up and down the river I shouldn't wonder. Mixed cargo, eh, Spiller? Nuts, birds' eggs, meat, minnows ... that sort of tackle—more or less what he brings Lupy."
"Depends what they're short of," said Spiller.
"They?" exclaimed Homily.
"Now, Homily," Pod admonished her, "Spiller's got his customers. Stands to reason. We're not the only borrowers in the world, remember. Not by a long chalk...."
"But these ones at Little Fordham," Homily pointed out, "they say they're made of plaster?"
"That's right," said Spiller, "painted over. All of a piece ... except one," he added.
"One live one?" asked Pod.
"That's right," said Spiller.
"Oh, I wouldn't like that," exclaimed Homily, "I wouldn't like that at all: not to be the one live borrower among a lot of dummy waxworks or whatever they call themselves. Get on my nerves that would...."
"They don't bother him," said Spiller. "Leastways not as much, he says, as a whole lot of live ones might."
"Well, that's a nice friendly attitude, I must say," snapped Homily. "Nice kind of welcome we'll get, I can see, when we turn up there unexpected...."
"Plenty of houses," said Spiller, "no sort of need to live close...."
"And he doesn't own the places," Pod reminded her.
"That's true," said
"I got a boat," said Spiller.
"Oh, my goodness..." murmured Homily, suddenly deflated.
"Big?" asked Pod.
"Fair," said Spiller.
"Could she take passengers?" asked Pod.
"Could do," said Spiller.
"Oh, my goodness..." murmured Homily again.
"What's the matter, Homily?" asked Pod.
"Can't see myself in a boat," said Homily. "Not on the water, I can't."
"Well, a boat's not much good on dry land," said Pod. "To get something, you got to risk something—that's how it goes. We got to find somewhere to live."
"There might be something, say, in walking distance," faltered Homily.
"Such as?"
"Well," said Homily unhappily, throwing a quick glance at Spiller, "say, for instance ... Spiller's kettle."
"Not much accommodation in a kettle," said Pod.
"More than there was in a boot," retorted Homily.
"Now, Homily," said Pod, suddenly firm, "you wouldn't be happy, not for twenty-four hours, in a kettle; and inside a week you'd be on at me night and day to find some kind of craft to get you downstream to Little Fordham. Here you are with the chance of a good home, fresh start, and a free passage, and all you do is go on like a maniac about a drop of clean running water. Now, if it was the drain you objected to—"
Homily turned to Spiller. "What sort of boat?" she asked nervously. "I mean, if I could picture it like..."
Spiller thought a moment. "Well," he said, "it's wooden."
"Yes?" said Homily.
Spiller tried again. "Well, it's like ... you might say it was something like a knife box."
"How much like?" asked Pod.
"Very like," said Spiller.
"In fact," declared Homily triumphantly, "it is a knife box?"
Spiller nodded. "That's right," he admitted.
"Flat-bottomed?" asked Pod.
"With divisions, like, for spoons, forks, and so on?" put in Homily.
"That's right," agreed Spiller, replying to both.
"Tarred and waxed at the seams?"
"Waxed," said Spiller.
"Sounds all right to me," said Pod. "What do you say, Homily?" It sounded better to her too, Pod realized, but he saw she was not quite ready to commit herself. He turned again to Spiller. "What do you do for power?"
"Power?"
"Got some kind of sail?"
Spiller shook his head. "Take her downstream, loaded—with a paddle; pole her back upstream in ballast...."
"I see," said Pod. He sounded rather impressed. "You go often to Little Fordham?"
"Pretty regular," said Spiller.
"I see," said Pod again. "Sure you could give us a lift?"
"Call back for you," said Spiller, "at the kettle, say. Got to go upstream to load."
"Load what?" asked Homily bluntly.
"The boat," said Spiller.
"I know that," said Homily, "but with what?"
"Now, Homily," put in Pod, "that's Spiller's business. No concern of ours. Does a bit of trading up and down the river I shouldn't wonder. Mixed cargo, eh, Spiller? Nuts, birds' eggs, meat, minnows ... that sort of tackle—more or less what he brings Lupy."
"Depends what they're short of," said Spiller.
"They?" exclaimed Homily.
"Now, Homily," Pod admonished her, "Spiller's got his customers. Stands to reason. We're not the only borrowers in the world, remember. Not by a long chalk...."
"But these ones at Little Fordham," Homily pointed out, "they say they're made of plaster?"
"That's right," said Spiller, "painted over. All of a piece ... except one," he added.
"One live one?" asked Pod.
"That's right," said Spiller.
"Oh, I wouldn't like that," exclaimed Homily, "I wouldn't like that at all: not to be the one live borrower among a lot of dummy waxworks or whatever they call themselves. Get on my nerves that would...."
"They don't bother him," said Spiller. "Leastways not as much, he says, as a whole lot of live ones might."
"Well, that's a nice friendly attitude, I must say," snapped Homily. "Nice kind of welcome we'll get, I can see, when we turn up there unexpected...."
"Plenty of houses," said Spiller, "no sort of need to live close...."
"And he doesn't own the places," Pod reminded her.
"That's true," said
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