“No, you don’t! You can’t sell me again with your boggins.”
“I’ll bet half a pint of salt water it is the king’s palace.”
“Very likely it is; and here is a fine building on the other side.”
“That must be the Wobbleboggin.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Perhaps it isn’t; but twig these little steamers,” added Scott, pointing to one of the snorting miniature boats that plied across the arm of the sea opposite the quay. “The pilot and engineer, and a boy to take the fares, seem to be the officers, crew, and all hands.”
“And in some of them all hands are boys.”
The boats seemed to contain nothing but the engine and boiler, which were in a compact mass, without covering. All around them were seats. Forward of the engine was a little steering-wheel, hardly more than a foot in diameter, at which the pilot—often a boy—was seated.
“I want a complete view of the city,” said Captain Lincoln, at this moment coming into the waist with the surgeon and Norwood. “I think I can get it from the main cross-trees.”
“I am too stiff to go aloft,” replied Dr. Winstock; “but I commend your plan.”