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CHAPTER III--THE FEN FERRY
The river Till was a wide, sluggish, clayey water, oozing out of fens,
and in this part of its course it strained among some score of
willow-covered, marshy islets.
It was a dingy stream; but upon this bright, spirited morning everything
was become beautiful. The wind and the martens broke it up into
innumerable dimples; and the reflection of the sky was scattered over all
the surface in crumbs of smiling blue.
A creek ran up to meet the path, and close under the bank the ferryman's
hut lay snugly. It was of wattle and clay, and the grass grew green upon
the roof.
Dick went to the door and opened it. Within, upon a foul old russet
cloak, the ferryman lay stretched and shivering; a great hulk of a man,
but lean and shaken by the country fever.
"Hey, Master Shelton," he said, "be ye for the ferry? Ill times, ill
times! Look to yourself. There is a fellowship abroad. Ye were better
turn round on your two heels and try the bridge."
"Nay; time's in the saddle," answered Dick. "Time will ride, Hugh
Ferryman. I am hot in haste."
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