THE WAITING BOAT
One fine evening in the August of the year 1666, Martin Leake, aged fourteen and a few months, had strolled down to the riverside for a breath of air.
It had been a terribly hot day. The whole month had been fine and dry; the narrow streets of London were stuffy and smelly, and it was a relief to escape from them to the bank of the broad Thames, where the easterly wind carried in a sharp salt tang from the sea.
The river always had a charm for Martin. In those days it might have been called the main highway of London City, and he loved to watch the wherries laden with passengers, and the tall ships lying at anchor or floating up or down on the tide.
He sauntered on and on, every now and then exchanging a nod or smile or cheery word with some waterman he knew. But most of the watermen were busy on the river, and as the evening went on Martin met fewer and fewer people.
Presently he sat down to rest near the head of a flight of stairs that led down to the water. A broad stone post gave support for his back, and leaning against it he watched the sun sinking into a fiery sky, and the lights that began to twinkle on the ships moored in the stream.
It was very peaceful. The only sounds that reached his ears were the plash of oars in passing boats and the voices of the watermen and their passengers.
Turning to look in the other direction, he noticed for the first time a ship’s boat straining at her painter, which was made fast to a ring at the foot of the stairs. In the boat sat, or rather crouched, a solitary seaman—a man with a very dark face and long, coal-black hair. His head was bent forward on his crossed arms; it seemed that the light rise and fall of the boat on the tide had rocked him to sleep. He wore a sailor’s long red cap and an orange-coloured jersey.
A waterman passing at the moment stopped and smiled as he glanced at the slumbering figure. Observing Martin, he said:
“They sleep like cats, these foreigners.”