les, Old Brazen Tongue of Gilmorehill tolls us
benison as we steer between the pierheads. Six sonorous strokes, loud
above the shrilling of workshop signals and the nearer merry jangle of
the engine-house chimes.

Workmen, hurrying to their jobs, curse us for robbing them of a
'quarter,' the swing-bridge being open to let us through. "Come oon!
Hurry up wi' that auld 'jeely-dish,' an' see's a chance tae get tae wur
wark," they shout in a chorus of just irritation. A facetious member
of our crew shouts:

"Wot--oh, old stiy-at-'omes. Cahmin' aat t' get wandered?"--and a
dockman answers:

"Hello, Jake, 'i ye therr? Man, th' sailormen maun a' be deid when th'
Mate gied you a sicht! Jist you wait tae he catches ye fanklin' th'
cro'-jeck sheets!"

We swing slowly between the pierheads, and the workmen, humoured by the
dockman's jest, give us a hoarse cheer as they scurry across the still
moving bridge. In time-honoured fashion our Cockney humorist calls
for, 'Three cheers f'r ol' Pier-'ead, boys,' and such of the 'boys' as
are able chant a feeble echo to his shout. The tugs straighten us up
in the river, and we breast the flood cautiously, for the mist has not
yet cleared and the coasting skippers are taking risks to get to their
berths before the stevedores have picked their men. In the shipyards
workmen are beginning their day's toil, the lowe of their flares light
up the gaunt structures of ships to be. Sharp at the last wailing note
of the whistle, the din of strenuous work begins, and we are fittingly
drummed down the reaches to a merry tune of clanging hammers--the
shipyard chorus "Let Glasgow flourish!"

Dawn finds us off Bowling, and as the fog clears gives us misty views
of the Kilpatrick Hills. Ahead, Dumbarton Rock looms up, gaunt and
misty, sentinel o'er the lesser heights. South, the Renfrew shore
stretches broadly out under the brightening sky--the wooded Elderslie
slopes and distant hills, and, nearer, the shoal ground behind the lang
Dyke where screaming gulls circle and wheel. The setting out is none
so ill now, with God's good daylight broad over all, and the flags
flying--the 'Blue Peter' fluttering its message at the fore.

On the poop, the Captain (the 'Old Man,' be he twenty-one or fifty)
paces to and fro--a short sailor walk, with a pause now and then to
mark the steering or pass a word with the River Pilot. Of medium
height, though broad to the point of ungainliness, Old Jock Leish