" "Caught you napping, eh?" rejoined Ireton, with a laugh. He was always forgetting that his tummy was fifty-four years old. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. "Back!" he cried fiercely. Hidden menace; a prescience of something dreadful about to happen. By a miracle, he averted its path, his hold on the girl’s mouth shifting fast to grasp her wrist.
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