‘I remember one November day there’d bin a heavy dag in the fore part o’ the day which cleared off towards the afternoon, and Bill went ashore after a hare or whatever he could git daown on they ould mashes away to the eastward there. A wonnerful lonely place that is—no housen nor nawthen but they great ould mashes. A course Bill den’t reckon there’d be anyone a lookin’ after the shootin’ daown there, but there were. But as I was a tellin’ yer, Bill most allus knaowed what to say to such as they. Well, just afore that come dark, about flight time, I raowed the boat ashore to the edge o’ the mud on the lookaout for Bill. I waited some time, and that grew darker and darker, and them watery birds and curlew kep’ all on a callin’, and one o’ they ould frank-herons come a flappin’ overhead, and that fared wonnerful an’ lonesome.
‘Well, I was jist a wonderin’ whether I hadn’t better goo and look for Bill in case he’d got stuck in one o’ they fleets what run acrost mashes, or had come to some hurt, for a man might lay aout there days and weeks afore anyone might hap to find ’im. Then I heard suthen and sees Bill a comin’ suthen fast along the top o’ the sea-wall with another chap a comin’ arter ’im. “Ullo,” I thinks, “Bill’s in trouble,” so I gives a whistle, and Bill answers and comes straight on daown the mud towards the bo’t with his gun in one hand and an ould hare or suthen in the other. When he gits half-way daown the mud Bill turns raound to the chap a follerin’ and says, “Do yaou ever read the noospapers, mate?”
‘The chap, he den’t say nawthen, so Bill stops and ’as a look at ’is gun, and then he says agin werry slow, “Funny things you reads of ’appenin’ in the noospapers.”
‘Well, that chap den’t fare to come no further, and Bill finishes ’is walk daown the mud alone. Wonnerful easy-spoken chap, ’e was. Yes, yes; us allus had good livin’ on the Kate.
‘Then agin, same as summer-time, maybe yaou’ve got a fair freight, or yaou’re doin’ a bit o’ cotcheling, and yaou’re a layin’ up some snug creek, and the tides ain’t just right for gittin’ away, and yaou has to wait three or faour days. Well, that’s wonnerful comfortable, that is, specially ef there’s a bit of a village handy. Or same as layin’ wind-baound winter-time, maybe twenty barges all together—and I remember sixty-two layin’ wind-baound at the mouth o’ the Burnham River once’t—well, that’ll be a rum ’un if there ain’t a bit o’ jollification goin’ on aboard some o’ they. Yes, yes; I allus says bargin’ is what ye likes to make it.
‘What other craft can a man take his missus in—leastways, ef he has a mind to? They what ain’t got little ’uns often takes their wives with ’em, and summer-time they can often manage without a mate in same as ninety-ton barges. A course, that’s a bit awk’ard ef ye gits into trouble, for a woman can’t do what a man can, and a man can’t allus say what he wants to ef he has the missus with him.
‘But that’s true, women’s wonnerful artful, and I’ve knaowed a woman say suthen more better than what a man could. When ould Ted Wetherby—a wonnerful hard-swearin’ man—took his missus with him, they was nearly run daown by a torpedo bo’t in the Medway. That young lootenant in charge pitched into Ted suthen cruel, but Ted he den’t say nawthen till that young chap was abaout in the middle of what ’e ’ad to say, and then ’e jist up and says, “Ush! Ladies at the hellum!” And then the lootenant turns on Ted’s missus, and tells she jist what he thought about Ted and the barge. Ted’s missus den’t say nawthen neither till they was jist sheerin’ off, and then she says, “I don’t take no more notus o’ what yaou say than ef ye ain’t never spoke.” Bill tould me he reckoned that lootenant were more wild than ef Bill ’ad spoke hisself.
‘Then agin, a skipper of a barge is most all the time his own master in a manner o’ speakin’. A course, some says yachtin’ is easier, and maybe it is, but I don’t hould with it. I’ve met scores o’ yacht skippers and had many a yarn along o’ they, but I’d rather be skipper of a little ould barge than any yacht afloat. My cousin, Seth Smith, is skipper of a yacht, and he’s tould me some o’ the wrinkles o’ yachtin’.
‘From what I can ’ear of it, there’s owners and owners. Accordin’ to some, they what don’t knaow nawthen fare to be the best kind to be with. Leastways, that’s a wonnerful thing haow long a yacht will lay off a place the skipper and crew likes. I remember one beautiful little wessel a layin’ off the same blessed ould place week after week, so I ast a chap I knaowed if she den’t never git under way. “Well,” ’e says, “yaou see, the owner, he don’t knaow nawthen, and the skipper and crew belongs ’ere. Chance time they do get under way, but we most allus says o’ she ’ef there ain’t enough wind to blaow a match aout there ain’t enough wind for she to muster, and ef there’s enough wind to blaow a match aout that’s too much for she, as the sayin’ is.”
‘But there’s owners what sails their own wessels, and Seth says as haow they is good enough to be along with, for ef they gits into trouble they gits into trouble, and that ain’t nawthen to do with the crew.