o’er the foam;Fame, riches, ne’er found them—yet still found a home.
“Tom, boy, haul up the skiff and paddle on shore with the bundle; ask the old woman how she is, and tell her I’m hearty.” Tom was in the boat in a moment, and pulling lustily for the shore. “That makes me recollect when I returned to my mother, a’ter the first three years of my sea service. I borrowed the skiff from the skipper.—I was in a Greenland-man, my first ship, and pulled ashore to my mother’s cottage under the cliff. I thought the old soul would have died with joy.” Here old Tom was silent, brushed a tear from his eye, and, as usual, commenced a strain, sotto voce:—
“Why, what’s that to you if my eyes I’m a wiping?
A tear is a pleasure, d’ye see, in its way.
“How, miserable,” continued he, after another pause, “the poor thing was when I would go to sea—how she begged and prayed—boys have no feeling, that’s sartin.”
“O bairn, dinna leave me, to gang far away,
O bairn, dinna leave me, ye’re a’ that I hae,
Think on a mither, the wind and the wave,
A mither set on ye, her feet in the grave.
“However, she got used to it at last, as the woman said when she skinned the ells. Tom’s a good boy, Jacob, but not steady, as they say you are. His mother spoils him, and I can’t bear to be cross to him neither; for his heart’s in the right place, after all. There’s the old woman shaking her dish-clout at us as a signal. I wish I had gone on shore myself, but I can’t step into these paper-built little boats without my timber toes going through at the bottom.”
Chapter Nine.
The two Toms take to protocolling—Treaty of Peace ratified between the belligerent parties—Lots of songs and supper—The largest mess of roast meat upon record.
Tom then shoved off the skiff. When half-way between the lighter and the shore, while his mother stood watching us, he lay on his oars. “Tom, Tom!” cried his mother, shaking her fist at him, as he stooped down his head; “if you do, Tom!”
“Tom, Tom!” cried his father, shaking his fist also; “if you dare, Tom!”
But Tom was not within reach of either party; and he dragged a bottle out of the basket which his mother had entrusted to him, and putting it to his mouth, took a long swig.
“That’s enough, Tom!” screamed his mother, from the shore.
“That’s too much, you rascal!” cried his father, from the barge.
Neither admonition was, however, minded by Tom, who took what he considered his allowance, and then very coolly pulled alongside, and handed up the basket and bundle of clean clothes on deck. Tom then gave the boat’s painter to his father, who, I perceived, intended to salute him with the end of it as soon as he came up; but Tom was too knowing—he surged the boat ahead, and was on deck and forward before his father could stump up to him. The main hatch was open, and Tom put that obstacle between his father and himself before he commenced his parley.
“What’s the matter, father?” said Tom, smiling, and looking at me.
“Matter, you scamp! How dare you touch the bottle?”
“The bottle—the bottle’s there, as good as ever.”
“The grog is what I mean—how dare you drink it?”
“I was half-way between my mother and you, and so I drank success and long life to you both. Ain’t that being a very dutiful son?”
“I wish I had my legs back again, you rascal!”
“You wish you had the grog back again, you mean, father.”
“You have to choose between—for if you had the grog you’d keep your legs.”
“For the matter of drinking the grog, you scamp, you seem determined to stand in my shoes.”
“Well, shoes are of no use to you now, father—why shouldn’t I? Why don’t you trust me? If you hadn’t locked the cupboard, I wouldn’t have helped myself.” And Tom, whose bootlace was loose, stooped down to make it fast.
Old Tom, who was still in wrath, thought this a good opportunity, as his son’s head was turned the other way, to step over the bricks, with which, as I before said, the lighter had been laden level with the main hatchway, and take his son by surprise. Tom, who had no idea of this manoeuvre, would certainly have been captured, but, fortunately for him, one of the upper bricks turned over, and let his father’s wooden leg down between two of the piles, where it was jammed fast. Old Tom attempted to extricate himself, but could not. “Tom, Tom, come here,” cried he, “and pull me out.”
“Not I,” replied Tom.
“Jacob, Jacob, come here; Tom, run and take the helm.”
“Not I,” replied Tom.
“Jacob, never mind the helm, she’ll drift all right for a minute,” cried old Tom; “come and help me.”
But I had been so amused with the scene, and having a sort of feeling for young Tom, that I declared it impossible to leave the helm without her going on the banks. I therefore remained, wishing to see in what way the two Toms would get out of their respective scrapes.
“Confound these—! Tom, you scoundrel, am I to stick here all day?”
“No, father, I don’t suppose you will. I shall help you directly.”
“Well, then, why don’t you do it?”
“Because I must come to terms. You don’t think I’d help myself to a thrashing, do you?”
“I won’t thrash you, Tom. Shiver my timbers if I do.”
“They’re in a fair way of being shivered as it is, I think. Now, father, we’re both even.”
“How’s that?”
“Why you clapped a stopper over all on me this morning, and now you’ve got one on yourself.”
“Well, then, take off mine, and I’ll take off yours.”
“If I unlock your leg, you’ll unlock the cupboard?”
“Yes.”
“And you promise me a stiff one after dinner?”
“Yes, yes, as stiff as I stand here.”
“No, that will be too much, for it would set me fast. I only like it about half-and-half, as I took it just now.”
Tom,
