“Jacob,” said Tom to me, pulling his wherry into the hard, alongside of mine, in which I was sitting with one of Mr Turnbull’s books in my hand; “Jacob, do you that my time is up to-morrow? I shall have run off my seven years, and when the sun rises I shall be free of the river. How much more have you to serve?”  
“About fifteen months, as near as I can recollect, Tom.—Boat, sir?”
 
“Yes; , my lad; be smart, for I am in a hurry. How’s tide?”
 
“Down, sir, very soon; but it’s now slack water. Tom, see if you can find Stapleton.”
 
“Pooh! never mind him, Jacob, I’ll go with you. I say, Jones, tell old ‘human natur’’ to look after my boat,” continued Tom, addressing a waterman of our acquaintance.
 
“I thought you had come up to see her,” said I to Tom, as we shoved off.
 
“See her at Jericho first,” replied Tom “she’s worse than a dog vane.”
 
“What, are you two again?”
 
“Two indeed—it’s all two—we are two fools. She is too fanciful; I am too fond; she behaves too ill, and I put up with too much. However, it’s all one.”
 
“I thought it was all two just now, Tom.”
 
“But two may be made one, Jacob, you know.”
 
“Yes, by the parson: but you are no parson.”
 
“Anyhow, I am something like one just now,” replied Tom, who was pulling the foremost ; “for you are a good clerk, and I am sitting behind you.”
 
“That’s not so bad,” observed the gentleman in the stern-sheets, whom we had forgotten in the .
 
“A waterman would make but a bad parson, sir,” replied Tom.
 
“Why so?”
 
“He’s not likely to practice as he preaches.”
 
“Again, why so?”
 
“Because all his life he looks one way and pulls another.”
 
“Very good—very good, indeed.”
 
“Nay, sir, good in practice, but still not good in deed—there’s a puzzle.”
 
“A puzzle, indeed, to find such a regular chain of in a wherry.”
 
“Well, sir, if I’m a regular chain to-day, I shall be like an irregular watch to-morrow.”
 
“Why so, my lad?”
 
“Because I shall be out of my time.”
 
“Take that, my lad,” said the gentleman, tossing half-a-crown to Tom.
 
“Thanky, sir; when we meet again may you have no more wit than you have now.”
 
“How do you mean?”
 
“Not wit enough to keep your money, sir—that’s all!”
 
“I presume you think that I have not got much.”
 
“Which, sir; wit or money?”
 
“Wit, my lad.”
 
“Nay, sir, I think you have both: the first you purchased just now; and you would hardly have bought it, if you had not money to spare.”
 
“But I mean wit of my own.”
 
“No man has wit of his own; if he borrows it, it’s not his own; if he has it in himself, it’s mother wit, so it’s not his.”
 
We pulled into the stairs near London Bridge, and the gentleman paid me his fare. “Good-bye, my lad,” said he to Tom.
 
“Fare-you-well, for well you’ve paid your fare,” replied Tom, holding out his arm to assist him out of the boat. “Well, Jacob, I’ve made more by my head than by my hands this morning. I wonder, in the long run, which gains most in the world.”
 
“Head, Tom, depend upon it; but they work best together.”
 
Here we were interrupted—“I say, you watermen, have you a mind for a good fare?” cried a dark-looking, not over clean, square-built, short young man, on the top of the flight of steps.
 
“Where to, sir?”
 
“Gravesend, my jokers, if you ain’t afraid of salt water.”
 
“That’s a long way, sir,” replied Tom; “and for salt water, we must have salt to our porridge.”
 
“So you shall, my lads, and a glass of grog into the bargain.”
 
“Yes; but the bargain a’n’t made yet, sir. Jacob, will you go?”
 
“Yes, but not under a guinea.”
 
“Not under two guineas,” replied Tom, aside. “Are you in a great hurry, sir?” continued he, addressing the young man.
 
“Yes, in a devil of a hurry; I shall lose my ship. What will you take me for?”
 
“Two guineas, sir.”
 
“Very well. Just come up to the public-house here, and put in my traps.”
 
We brought down his luggage, put it into the wherry, and started down the river with the tide. Our fare was very communicative, and we found out that he was the master’s mate of the Immortalité, forty-gun , lying off Gravesend, which was to drop down next morning and wait for sailing orders at the Downs. We carried the tide with us, and in the afternoon were close to the frigate, whose blue ensign waved proudly over the taffrail. There was a considerable sea arising from the wind meeting the tide, and before we arrived close to her we had shipped a great deal of water; and when we were alongside, the wherry, with the chest in her bows, pitched so heavily that we were afraid of being swamped. Just as a rope had been made fast to the chest, and they were weighing it out of the wherry, the ship’s launch with water came alongside, and, whether from accident or , I know not, although I suspect the latter, the midshipman who her shot her against the wherry, which was crushed in, and immediately filled, leaving Tom and me in the water, and in danger of being jammed to death between the launch and the side of the frigate. The in the boat, however, forced her off with their oars, and hauled us in, while our wherry sank with her gunwale even with the water’s edge, and floated away astern.
 
As soon as we had shaken ourselves a little, we went up the side, and asked one of the officers to send a boat to pick up our wherry.
 
“Speak to the first —there he is,” was the reply.
 
I went up to the person out to me; “If you please, sir—”
 
“What the devil do you want?”
 
“A boat, sir, to—”
 
“A boat! the devil you do!”
 
“To pick up our wherry, sir,” interrupted Tom.
 
“Pick it up yourself,” said the first lieutenant, passing us, and hailing the men aloft. “Maintop, there, hook on your stays. Be smart. Lower away the yards. Marines and after-guard, clear launch. Boatswain’s mate.”
 
“Here, sir.”
 
“Pipe marines and after-guard to clear launch.”
 
“Aye, aye, sir.”
 
“But we shall lose our boat, Jacob,” said Tom to me. “They stove it in, and they ought to pick it up.” Tom then went up to the master’s mate, which he had brought on board, and explained our difficulty.
 
“Upon my soul, I dar’n’t say a word. I’m in a scrape for breaking my leave. Why the devil didn’t you take care of your wherry, and haul a-head when you saw the launch coming?”
 
“How could we, when the chest was out?”
 
“Very true. Well, I am very sorry for you, but I must look after my chest.” So saying, he disappeared down the gangway ladder.
 
“I’ll try it again, anyhow,” said Tom, going up to the first lieutenant. “Hard case to lose our boat and our bread, sir,” said Tom his hat.
 
The first lieutenant, now that the marines and after-guard were at a regular stamp and go, had, unfortunately more leisure to attend to us. He looked at us earnestly, and walked aft to see if the wherry was yet in sight. At that moment up came the master’s mate, who had not yet reported himself to the first lieutenant.
 
“Tom,” said I, “there is a wherry close to, let us get into it, and go after our boat ourselves.”
 
“Wait one moment to see if they will help us—and get our money, at all events,” replied Tom; and we both walked aft.
 
“Come on board, sir,” said the master’s mate, touching his hat with .
 
“You’ve broke your leave, sir,” replied the first lieutenant, “and now I’ve to send a boat to pick up the wherry through your carelessness.”
 
“If you please, they are two very fine young men,” observed the mate. “Make capital foretopmen. Boat’s not worth sending for, sir.”
 
This hint, given by the mate to the first lieutenant, to his favour, was not lost. “Who are you, my lads?” said the first lieutenant to us.
 
“Watermen, sir.”
 
“Watermen, heh? was that your own boat?”
 
“No, sir,” replied I; “it belongs to the man that I serve with.”
 
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