"
"It's all one to Tom," said I.
Our brig was the _Venus_, of Rye, a stump topgallantmast coaster,
eighty years old. We were in a big bight of the coast, heading for a
river which flows past a well known town, whither we were bound. The
bed of that river went in a vein through about three miles of mud,
till it sheared into the land, and flowed into a proper-looking river
with banks of its own. At flood the water covered the mud, but the
river was buoyed, and when once you had the land on either hand and
the bay of mud astern, the pilotage to the town was no more than a
matter of bracing the yards about till you floated into one long reach
whose extremity was painted by the red wharf you moored alongside of.
We were six of a ship's company. John Bunk was skipper, I, Tom Fish,
was the mate, the others were Bill Martin, Jack Stevens, a man named
Rooney, and a boy called William. On board craft of this sort there is
very little discipline, and the sailor's talk to the captain as though
he lived in the forecastle.
"John," sings out Bill Martin, casting his eyes over the greasy yellow
surface of the water streaming shorewards, "are ye going to try for it
without the tug?"
"Ay," answered old Bunk.
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