But, according to his friend, Tom pulled himself up with a round turn at last, and as he pulled out his big, old-fashioned silver watch.
“Oh dear,” he cried, “I’d no idea how the time was flyin’; and those dear children on board, too, all by their dear little selves. Now, old chummy, I’m off. Duty’s duty, and we may meet again another day.”
“I don’t think you can get off to-night to the Thunderbolt,” replied his friend.
“What d’ye mean?” said Tom.
“Why I mean that it’s blowin’ big guns.”
“No matter if it blows fifty-sixes or Armstrongs, Tom’s goin’ off if birds can fly.”
“There won’t be a boat’ll take you off to-night, Tom,” said the landlord.
“Then I’ll swim,” said Tom Morley, doggedly. “I’ve done that afore, when duty was duty.”
“I know you has, Tom; but take my advice, don’t try any such foolish game on a night like this, or you’ll get left.”
“Good-night, landlord.—Come on,” cried Tom to his friend.