“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.”