Meanwhile Uncle Moses had recovered his presence of mind. He was naturally cool and self-possessed, and after mounting the trunks, and gathering the boys about him, he quickly rallied from his confusion, and looked eagerly around to find some way by which he might be extricated from his difficulty.
At last a way appeared.
Around him, in his immediate neighborhood, stood the lazzaroni, as urgent, as patient, and as aggressive as ever, with their offers of assistance. Beyond these were people passing up and down the wharf, all of whom were foreigners, and therefore inaccessible. Beyond these again was a wide space, and in the distance a busy street, with carriages driving to and fro.
Uncle Moses looked for a long time, hoping to see something like a cab. In vain. They all seemed to him to be "one-hoss shays," and what was worse, all seemed to be filled.
"Boys," said he at last, "I'm goin' to make a move. You jest sit here, and hold on to the trunks. I'll go an hunt up one of them one-hoss shays. There ain't nothin' else that I can do. Hold on now, hard and fast, till I come back."
With these words off went Uncle Moses, and the boys remained behind, waiting.
A very fine-looking set of boys they were too.
There was Frank Wilmot, about fifteen years of age, tall, stout, with fine, frank face, and crisp, curly hair.
There was Clive Wilmot, about fourteen, tall and slight, with large eyes and dark hair.
There was David Clark, about Frank's age, rather pale, with serious face, and quiet, thoughtful manner.