“A charming prospect, this, Master Coffin, but rather too much poetry in it for your taste; I believe you relish no land that is of a harder consistency than mud!”
“I was born on the waters, sir,” returned the cockswain, from his snug abode, where he was bestowed with his usual economy of room, “and it's according to all things for a man to love his native soil. I'll not deny, Captain Barnstable, but I would rather drop my anchor on a bottom that won't broom a keel, though, at the same time, I harbor no great malice against dry land.”
“I shall never forgive it, myself, if any accident has befallen Griffith in this excursion,” rejoined the lieutenant; “his Pilot may be a better man on the water than on terra firma, long Tom.”
The cockswain turned his solemn visage, with an extraordinary meaning, towards his commander, before he replied:
“For as long a time as I have followed the waters, sir, and that has been ever since I've drawn my rations, seeing that I was born while the boat was crossing Nantucket shoals, I've never known a pilot come off in greater need, than the one we fell in with, when we made that stretch of two on the land, in the dog-watch of yesterday.”
“Ay! the fellow has played his part like a man; the occasion was great, and it seems that he was quite equal to his work.”
“The frigate's people tell me, sir, that he handled the ship like a top,” continued the cockswain; “but she is a ship that is a nateral inimy of the bottom!”
“Can you say as much for this boat, Master Coffin?” cried Barnstable: “keep her out of the surf, or you'll have us rolling in upon the beach, presently, like an empty water-cask; you must remember that we cannot all wade, like yourself in two-fathom water.”
The cockswain cast a cool glance at the crests of foam that were breaking over the tops of the billows, within a few yards of where their boat was riding, and called aloud to his men:
“Pull a stroke or two; away with her into dark water.”