If, in so doing, he took another glance at the bargeman, he did it by stealth. He cast himself on the grass by the lock side, in an indolent way, with his back in that direction, and, having gathered a few blades, fell to chewing them. The dip of Eugene Wrayburn’s sculls had become hardly audible in his ears when the bargeman passed him, putting the utmost width that he could between them, and keeping under the hedge. Then, Riderhood sat up and took a long look at his figure, and then cried: “Hi⁠—I⁠—i! Lock, ho! Lock! Plashwater Weir Mill Lock!”

The bargeman stopped, and looked back.

“Plashwater Weir Mill Lock, t’otherest gov⁠—er⁠—nor⁠—or⁠—or⁠—or!” cried Mr. Riderhood, with his hands to his mouth.

The bargeman turned back. Approaching nearer and nearer, the bargeman became Bradley Headstone, in rough waterside secondhand clothing.