“What the devil’s the matter with ’em?” stormed the master of the Thistle. “Chuck a pail of water over ’em, Joe!”
Joe obeyed with gusto; and, as he never had much of a head for details, bestowed most of it upon the watermen. Through the row which ensued the Thistle’s crew snored peacefully, and at last were handed up over the sides like sacks of potatoes, and the indignant watermen pulled back to the stairs.
“Here’s a nice crew to win a race with!” wailed the skipper, almost crying with rage. “Chuck the water over ’em, Joe! Chuck the water over ’em!”
Joe obeyed willingly, until at length, to the skipper’s great relief, one man stirred, and, sitting up on the deck, sleepily expressed his firm conviction that it was raining. For a moment they both had hopes of him, but as Joe went to the side for another bucketful, he evidently came to the conclusion that he had been dreaming, and, lying down again, resumed his nap. As he did so the first stroke of Big Ben came booming down the river.
“Eleven o’clock!” shouted the excited skipper.
It was too true. Before Big Ben had finished, the neighbouring church clocks commenced striking with feverish haste, and hurrying feet and hoarse cries were heard proceeding from the deck of the Good Intent.
“Loose the sails!” yelled the furious Tucker. “Loose the sails! Damme, we’ll get under way by ourselves!”
He ran forward, and, assisted by the mate, hoisted the jibs, and then, running back, cast off from the brig, and began to hoist the mainsail. As they disengaged themselves from the tier, there was just sufficient sail for them to advance against the tide; while in front of them the Good Intent, shaking out sail after sail, stood boldly down the river.
“This was the way of it,” said Sam, as he stood before the grim Tucker at six o’clock the next morning, surrounded by his mates. “He came into the ‘Town o’ Berwick,’ where we was, as nice a spoken little chap as ever you’d wish to see. He said he’d been a-looking at the Good Intent, and he thought it was the prettiest little craft ’e ever seed, and the exact image of one his dear brother, which was a missionary, ’ad, and he’d like to stand a drink to every man of her crew. Of course, we all said we was the crew direckly, an’ all I can remember after that is two coppers an’ a little boy trying to giv’ me the frog’s march, an’ somebody chucking pails o’ water over me. It’s crool ’ard losing a race, what we didn’t know nothink about, in this way; but it warn’t our fault?—it warn’t, indeed. It’s my belief that the little man was a missionary of some sort hisself, and wanted to convert us, an’ that was his way of starting on the job. It’s all very well for the mate to have highstirriks; but it’s quite true, every word of it, an’ if you go an’ ask at the pub they’ll tell you the same.”