“When I was a young man,” said the fare with severity, “I’d ha’ pulled this boat across and back afore now.”
“When you was a young man,” said the man at the oars, who had a local reputation as a wit, “there wasn’t no boats; they was all Noah’s arks then.”
“Stow your gab,” said the captain, after a pause of deep thought.
The other, whose besetting sin was certainly not loquacity, ejected a thin stream of tobacco-juice over the side, spat on his hands, and continued his laborious work until a crowd of dark shapes, surmounted by a network of rigging, loomed up before them.
“Now, which is your little barge?” he inquired, tugging strongly to maintain his position against the fast-flowing tide.
“Smiling Jane” said his fare.
“Ah,” said the waterman, “Smiling Jane, is it? You sit there, cap’n, an’ I’ll row round all their sterns while you strike matches and look at the names. We’ll have quite a nice little evening.”
“There she is,” cried the captain, who was too muddled to notice the sarcasm; “there’s the little beauty. Steady, my lad.”
He reached out his hand as he spoke, and as the boat jarred violently against a small schooner, seized a rope which hung over the side, and, swaying to and fro, fumbled in his pocket for the fare.
“Steady, old boy,” said the waterman affectionately. He had just received twopence-halfpenny and a shilling by mistake for threepence. “Easy up the side. You ain’t such a pretty figger as you was when your old woman made such a bad bargain.”