, he
seldom or ever sang more than one or two stanzas of a song in the way of
quotation, or if apt to what was going on, often altering the words to
suit the occasion. He was accompanied by his son Tom, a lad of my own
age, as merry as his father, and who had a good treble voice and a good
deal of humour; he would often take the song up from his father, with
words of his own putting in, with ready wit and good tune. We three
composed the crew of the lighter; and, as there had already been
considerable loss from demurrage, were embarked as soon as they arrived.
The name of the father was Tom Beazeley, but he was always known on the
river as "old Tom" or, as some more learned wag had christened him, "the
_Merman on two sticks_." As soon as we had put our traps on board, as
old Tom called them, he received his orders, and we cast off from the
wharf. The wind was favourable. Young Tom was as active as a monkey,
and as full of tricks. His father took the helm, while we two, assisted
by a dog of the small Newfoundland breed, which Tom had taught to take a
rope in his teeth, and be of no small service to two boys in bowsing on
a tackle, made sail upon the lighter, and away we went, while old Tom's
strain might be heard from either shore.

"Loose, loose every sail to the breeze,
The course of the vessel improve,
I've done with the toil of the seas,
Ye sailors, I'm bound to my love.

"Tom, you beggar, is the bundle ready for your mother? We must drop the
skiff, Jacob, at Battersea reach, and send the clothes on shore for the
old woman to wash, or there'll be no clean shirts for Sunday. Shove in
your shirts, Jacob; the old woman won't mind that. She used to wash for
the mess. Clap on, both of you, and get another pull at those
haulyards. That'll do, my bantams.

"Hoist, hoist, every sail to the breeze,
Come, shipmates, and join in the song,
Let's drink while the barge cuts the seas,
To the gale that may drive her along.

"Tom, where's my pot of tea? Come, my boy, we must pipe to breakfast.
Jacob, there's a rope towing overboard. Now, Tom, hand me my tea, and
I'll steer her with one hand, drink with the other, and as for the legs,
the less we say about them the better.

"No glory I covet, no riches I want,
Ambition is nothing to me.
But one thing I beg of kind Heaven to grant--"

Tom's treble chimed in, handing him the pot--

"For _breakfast a good cup of tea_.

"Silence, you sea-c