so much that I looked round to see if Alec noticed it; probably
_if_ he heard it he took it for the bump of the paddles on the water, as
a tug passed us towing a couple of fishing boats into the offing.

At breakfast time, eight o'clock, we moored in the mouth of the Bure,
just alongside the quay by the ancient North Gate, which has looked down
upon the muddy old river for the past five centuries, its head held high
in the air, as if wishing to avoid the assortment of smells which
accompany the floating garbage sailing slowly towards the sea.

How impatient I was for the tide to run up and bear me home to Barton,
about twenty miles from our present moorings, and at last it did turn.
To give it time to gain strength we waited a full hour, then, spreading
our joyous sails, away we sped. I might say we _tried_ to rival the
express rate, but our actual progress was very parliamentary. We drew
only three feet of water, but with a slack tide under us we touched
ground several times between North Gate and the One-mile-house, so had
to be very careful. From thence onward we had deep water and progressed
faster.

It was nearly two o'clock as we lowered sail to pass Acle Bridge, and
only about half our journey completed. Stepping the masts, hoisting
sail, and having a glass of good Norfolk ale at the little inn alongside
the bridge occupied half an hour, but now the river was deeper and the
wind fresher, we went bowling along capitally, till taking the turn
before reaching St. Benet's Abbey, where we lost the favour of the wind.
The flat miles of marsh land looked strange to me after hilly, toilsome
Jethou. But now I was nearing home, and knew every tree and fence, every
break in the river wall, and every house we passed, and loved them all;
greeting them as familiar friends as we glided silently by them.

St. Benet's Abbey passed we turn into the river Ant, and again travel
along with a fair wind till bothering old Ludham Bridge bars our
progress; so we have again to "down masts" to pass under the single
gothic arch, which has been the _ultima Thule_ to many a large wherry.
Up sail once more, and on we glide up the tortuous narrow stream, till
passing quiet, quaint, little Irstead Church, with its two or three
attendant cottages, we at last enter Barton Broad.[7] Now my excitement
gives way to another feeling, that of suspense and fear as to how I
shall find the old folks at home. Are they well? Who can tell what may
have tak