The Fortunes of Gaff and Billy continued.

Now, while the bottle was making its long voyage, Stephen Gaff and his son Billy were exposed to the vicissitudes of strange and varied fortune.

We left them sound asleep in the stern of the little boat, tossed on the troubled breast of the Pacific.

They never knew how long they slept on that occasion, but when they awoke the sun was high in the heavens, and the breeze had considerably abated.

Gaff was the first to shake off the lethargy that had oppressed him. Gazing round for some time, he seemed to hesitate whether he should lie down again, and looked earnestly once or twice in the face of his slumbering boy.

“’Tis pity to rouse him,” he muttered, “but I think we must ha’ had a long sleep, for I feel rested like. Hallo, Billy boy, how are ’ee?”

Billy did not respond to the greeting. Indeed, he refused to be moved by means of shouts of any kind, and only consented to wake up when his father took him by the coat-collar with both hands, and shook him so violently that it seemed as if his head were about to fall off.

“Hallo! faither,” he cried in a sleepy voice, “wot’s up?”

“Ha! you’re roused at last, lad, come, it’s time to have a bit breakfast. It ain’t a heavy un you’ll git, poor boy, but ’tis better than nothin’, and bigger men have throve upon less at times.”

Billy was awake and fully alive to his position by this time. He was much depressed. He would have been more than mortal had he been otherwise, but he resolved to shake off the feeling, and face his fortune like a man.

“Come along, daddy, let’s have a spell at the oars before breakfast.”

“No, lad, take a bit first,” said Gaff, opening the sack which contained the biscuit, and carefully measuring out two small portions of the crumbs. One of the portions was rather larger than the other. Billy observed this, and stoutly refused to take his share when Stephen pushed the larger portion towards him.

“No, daddy,” said he, “you’re not a fair divider.”

“Am I not, lad?” said Stephen meekly. “I thought I’d done it pretty eekal.”

“No, my half is the biggest, so you’ll have to take some of it back.”

Gaff refused, but Billy insisted, and a small piece of the precious biscuit was finally put back into the bag. The meal was then eaten with much display of satisfaction by father and son, (a blessing having been first asked on it), and it was prolonged as much as possible in order to encourage the idea that it was not such a small one after all.

Billy had not been particular as to his crusts and fragments of victuals in days of yore, but it was wonderful how sharp his eye was on this occasion to note and pick up every minute crumb, and transfer it to his hungry mouth.

“Now, daddy, I’m ready.”

He swelled out his little chest, and gave it a sounding thump as he rose, and, rolling up his shirt-sleeves to the shoulder, seized an oar. Gaff took the other, and both sat down to the slow, dreary, monotonous toil of another day.

At first the Bu’ster was chatty, but by degrees his tongue flagged, and ere long it became quite silent.

For six or eight hours they pulled without intermission, except for a few minutes at a time, every hour or so, and Gaff directed the boat’s head in the direction to which the captain had pointed when he said the land might be about five hundred miles off.

When the sun was getting low on the horizon, Billy stopped with a sigh—

“Ain’t it time for dinner, daddy, d’ye think?”

“Hold on a bit, lad, I’m goin’ to let ye tak’ a sleep soon, an’ it’ll be best to eat just afore lyin’ down.”

No more was said, and the rowing was continued until the sun had set, and the shades of night were beginning to descend on the sea.

“Now, lad, we’ll sup,” said Stephen, with a hearty air, as he pulled in his oar.

“Hooray!” cried Billy faintly, as he jumped up and went to the stern, where his father soon produced the biscuit-bag and measured out the two small portions.

“Cheatin’ again, daddy,” cried the Bu’ster with a remonstrative tone and look.

“No, I ain’t,” said Gaff sharply, “eat yer supper, you scamp.”

Billy obeyed with alacrity, and disposed of his portion in three mouthfuls. There was a small quantity of rain-water—about half a pint—which had been collected and carefully husbanded in the baling-dish. It was mingled with a little spray, and was altogether a brackish and dirty mixture, nevertheless they drank it with as much relish as if it had been clear spring water.

“Now, boy, turn in,” said Gaff earnestly; “you’ll need all the sleep ye can git, for, if I know the signs of the sky, we’ll have more wind afore long.”

Poor Billy was too tired to make any objection to this order, so he laid his head on a fold of the wet sail, and almost immediately fell asleep.

Gaff was right in his expectation of more wind. About two hours after sunset it came on to blow so stiffly that he was obliged to awaken Billy and set him to bale out the sprays that kept constantly washing over the gunwale. Towards midnight a gale was blowing, and Gaff put the boat before the wind, and drove with it.

Hour after hour passed away; still there was no abatement in the violence of the storm, and no relaxation from baling and steering, which the father and son took alternately every half hour.

At last Billy’s strength was fairly exhausted. He flung down the baling-dish, and, sitting down beside his father, laid his head on his breast, and burst into tears. The weakness, (for such Billy deemed it), only lasted a few moments however. He soon repressed his sobs.

“My poor boy,” said Gaff, patting his son’s head, “it’ll be soon over wi’ us, I fear. May the good Lord help us! The boat can’t float long wi’ such sprays washin’ over her.”

Billy said nothing, but clung closer to his father, while his heart was filled with solemn, rather than fearful, thoughts of death.

Their danger of swamping now bec............