and
then caught up a crest of the broken harbour sea and flung the icy
spray among us. Frequent squalls came down--rude bursts of wind and
driving sleet that set the face of the harbour white-streaked under the
lash, and shut out the near land in a shroud of wind-blown spindrift.
To seaward, in the clearings, we could see the hurtling outer seas,
turned from the sou'-west, shattering in a high column of broken water
at the base of St. Anthony's firm headland. We were well out of that,
with good Cornish land our bulwark.

Ahead of us lay Falmouth town, dim and misty under the stormy sky. A
'sailor-town,' indeed, for the grey stone houses, clustered in
irregular masses, extended far along the water front--on the beach,
almost, as though the townsfolk held only to business with tide and
tide-load, and had set their houses at high-water mark for greater
convenience. In spite of the high wind and rough sea, a fleet of shore
boats were setting out toward the anchorage. Needs a master wind, in
truth, to keep the Falmouth quay-punts at their moorings when
homeward-bound ships lie anchored in the Roads, whose lean, ragged
sailormen have money to spend!

Under close-reefed rags of straining canvas, they came at us, lurching
heavily in the broken seaway, and casting the spray mast-high from
their threshing bows. To most of them our barque was the sailing mark.
Shooting up in the wind's eye with a great rattle of blocks and _slatt_
of wet canvas, they laid us aboard. There followed a scene of spirited
action. A confusion of wildly swaying masts and jarring
broadsides--shouts and curses, protest and insult; fending, pushing,
sails and rigging entangled in our out-gear. Struggling to a foothold,
where any offered on our rusty topsides, the boatmen clambered aboard,
and the Captain was quickly surrounded by a clamorous crowd, extending
cards and testimonials, and loudly praying for the high honour of
'sarving' the homeward bound.

"Capten! I sarved 'ee when 'ee wos mate o' th' _Orion_! Do 'ee mind
Pengelly--Jan Pengelly, Capten!"--"Boots, Capten? Damme, if them a'nt
boots o' my makin', 'ee 're a-wearin' nah!"--"... can dew 'ee cheaper
'n any man on th' Strand, Capten!"--"Trevethick's th' man, Capten!
Fort--(_th' 'ell 'ee shovin' at?_)--Forty year in Falmouth, Capten!"

Old Jock was not to be hurried in his bestowal of custom. From one he
took a proffered cigar; from another a box of matches. Lighting up, he
seated h