Silver went down to the river, and took a boat, and before she could untie the anchor, Max had jumped in the prow. But Silver had no skill with boats, and the Thames was still boiling in its fury. As she eddied and tossed and made no headway, a fat weight flung itself in beside her and took an oar in its powerful arm; its powerful one arm. It was Mistress Split.
‘Row,’ she commanded.
Under Mistress Split’s direction, and Silver pulling mightily with her two arms, and Mistress Split skilfully rowing her side and managing the unruly tide, Max barking encouragement, the boat passed under London Bridge.
The Keeper of the Tides was leaning out. ‘They went down,’ he cried, ‘and Jack did not come up!’
Silver was full of foreboding, and Max’s tail had begun to droop.
‘Row!’ commanded Mistress Split, and on they rowed, past the crumbling edges of London, and towards the marshes.
And that is where they found him.
Jack was floating on his back with his eyes wide open, watching the clouds. He had no sense of where he was, or who he was, only that he was floating, and that his whole body was tingling like a jellyfish. He did not know it, but he was slightly luminous.
He thought the clouds were cities, and he thought he was dreaming.
A boat pulled alongside him, and one muscled sturdy arm yanked him over the edge.
‘You’ve woken me up,’ he said regretfully.
‘We’re going home,’ said Silver.