And there the old codger was squatting, his old face pinched and woebegone, his bag o' bones wrapped up in his coonskin coat, his pan near flush with the sea, with little black waves already beginning to wash over it.
A sad sight, believe me! Poor old Pinch-a-Penny, bound out to sea without hope on a wee pan of ice!
"Got any room for me?" says he.
They ranged alongside. "Mercy o' God!" says Tom; "she's too deep as it is."
"Ay," says Peter; "you isn't got room for no more. She'd sink if I put foot in her."
"Us'll come back," says Tom.
"No use, Tom," says Peter. "You knows that well enough. 'Tis no place out here for a Gingerbread punt. Afore you could get t' shore an' back night will be down an' this here gale will be a blizzard. You'd never be able t' find me."
"I 'low not," says Tom.
"Oh, no," says Peter. "No use, b'y."
"Damme, Skipper Peter," says Tom, "I'm sorry!"