r a man as father, and
having plenty of prize-money he managed to purchase a small dwelling for
himself, which I shall have by-and-by to describe. Old Tom taking the
oars, we pulled aboard the _Dartmouth_, forty-two gun frigate, just come
in from the Mediterranean. Several of the men had been shipmates with
father, and all those belonging to Portsmouth knew mother. They were
very glad to see her, and she had to answer questions of all sorts about
their friends on shore. It is the business of a bumboat-woman to know
everything going forward, what ships are likely to be commissioned, the
characters of the captains and officers, when they are to sail, and
where they are going to. Among so many friends mother drove a brisker
trade than usual, and when the men heard that I was Jack Trawl's son
they gave me many a bright shilling and sixpence, and kind pats on the
head with their broad palms. "He's a chip of the old block, no doubt
about that, missus," cried one. "He'll make a smart young topman one of
these days," said another. Several gave her commissions to execute, and
many sent messages to friends on shore. Altogether, when she left the
frigate she was in better spirits than she had been for a long time.

Scarcely had we shoved off, however, when down came the rain in
torrents, well-nigh wetting us through.

"It's blowing plaguey hard, missus," observed old Tom, as he tugged away
at the oars, I helping him while mother steered. "I hope as how we
shall find your good man safe ashore when we gets in."

On reaching the Hard the wherry was not to be seen. After old Tom had
made fast the boat, wet as she was mother waited and waited in the hopes
that father would come in. Old Tom remained also. He seemed more than
usually anxious. We all stood with our hands shielding our eyes as we
looked down the harbour to try and make out the wherry, but the driving
rain greatly limited our view.

"Hast seen anything of Jack Trawl's wherry?" asked old Tom over and over
again of the men in the different boats, as they came in under their
mizens and foresails. The same answer was returned by all.

"Maybe he got a fare at Spithead for Gosport and will be coming across
soon, or he's gone ashore at the Point with some one's luggage,"
observed old Tom, trying to keep up mother's spirits; but that was a
hard matter to do, for the wind blew stronger and stronger. A few
vessels could be seen, under close-reefed canvas, running