od like one in a dream, staring
with his wonderful eyes at the giant rocks ahead of him, and seemed
unconscious of any presence.

Something in Chatterton already struck Jack Henderson with a strange
awe.

Now, as he stood on the bank of the river, where the tide had just
turned its dun-coloured waters, rushing swiftly towards the sea, his
head bare, his hair tossed back from his capacious brow, his hands
clasped and his lips moving, though no sound escaped them, he looked as
if he belonged to a different race from the big stalwart youth beside
him, whose honest face was all aglow with health and vigour, and who
towered a head and shoulders above the slight boyish form at his side.

Presently Chatterton spoke, but not to Jack.

'Rushing on to the sea--rush on--and bear the tidings of wrong and
injustice and hate to the great ocean. I see them as they go--the evil
spirits which make Bristol a hell on earth--drown them in the
flood--free the city from their presence--and then--'

'Are you not going to the office, Chatterton?' Jack ventured to say at
last. 'You will not be there at eight, I say,' and Jack touched the
boy's arm.

The human touch seemed to break the spell, and Chatterton laughed a
strange unnatural laugh.

'Oh, is it you, old Jack? Late, do you say? Yes, I am late for
everything--too late--always too late. Farewell. I must away with all
speed. Tell your angel she is coming to a place where she will find no
good company.' And then, before Jack could say another word,
Chatterton's slight boyish form was speeding along the road with
incredible swiftness, and had disappeared at a turn leading from the Hot
Wells to Bristol.

'I believe they are right,' Jack thought; 'he is mad. I must warn Bryda
to be careful. All the queer stories about him are true, I daresay; but,
after all, he is only a boy--sixteen at the most--and I am twenty. Hang
that jeweller's shop! I think I will cut it, and go off in one of these
big ships--make a fortune in America--and then--then--'

Ah! Jack Henderson, what then? Your simple soul has its dreams as you
stand by that mighty rushing river, under the giant rocks, and your
dreams are sweet, sweeter than those of the marvellous boy who has just
left you to return to the hated drudgery of Mr Lambert's office in Corn
Street.

CHAPTER V

THE ORCHARD GATE.

Jack Henderson found the morning very long, and finally stretched
himself on one of the benches of the pump-room