One day he came home, as usual, with red eyes and hands.
"O, you blockhead!" screamed his mother,—she was a bit of a virago, Mrs. Trotter was,—"you've ben gettin' another lickin', I know."
"O, yes," replied young Mr. Trotter; "that's one uv the reg'lar exercises—lickin' me. 'Arter I've licked Trotter,' sez the master, 'I'll hear the 'rithmetic class.' But, mother, to change the subject, as the criminal said, when he found the judge was getting personal, is there enny arrand I can do for you?"
"Yes," grumbled the widow; "only you're so eternal slow about every thing you undertake—go get a pitcher of water, and be four years about it, will ye?"
Bob Trotter took the pitcher, and wended his way in the direction of the street pump; but he hadn't got far when he encountered his friend, Joe Buffer, the mate of a vessel, issuing from his house, dragging a heavy sea chest after him.
"Come Bob," said Joe, "bear a hand, and help us down to Long Wharf with this."
"Well, so I would," answered Bob, "only you see mother sent me arter a pitcher o' water."
"What do you care about your mother—she don't care for you? Come along."
"Well," said Bob, "first let me hide the pitcher where I can find it again."
With these words he stowed away his earthenware under a flight of stone steps, and accompanied his friend aboard his ship. The pilot was urging the captain to cast off, and take advantage of the tide and wind, but the latter was awaiting the arrival of a boy who had shipped the day before, wishing no good to his eyes for the delay he had occasioned.