that had brought us so far down the river, and who was at his post on
the paddle-box waiting for the pilot's orders to "stand by," the little
steamer, having already stopped her engines and now busy blowing off her
waste steam, waiting for us to cast off her towing-hawser from our
bollard, where it was belayed on the forecastle.

While I was noticing these details, Tim was scrambling forwards towards
the windlass bitts, mounting thence on to the forecastle, where Mr
Saunders and Matthews, with the other middies, were assembled.

Adams, who had been relieved from the wheel, and the other two sailors,
as well as the boy who remained with the rest after coming out to strike
the bell, was attending to the compressor and watching the cable on the
main-deck, just below the group above, which I now joined, racing after
my friend Tim.

Looking back astern as soon as I attained this elevated position in the
bows of the ship, I noticed the pilot on the poop bring his arm down,
whereupon Mr Mackay by his side, putting both his hands to his mouth
for a speaking trumpet, shouted out towards us on the forecastle:

"Are you all ready for'ard?"

"All ready!" yelled back Mr Saunders in reply.

"Let go!" then called out Mr Mackay, the second mate supplementing his
cry with a second shout--

"Stand clear of the cable!"

At the same moment, Tim Rooney giving the tumbler a smart stroke with a
hammer which he had picked up from off the windlass, the cathead stopper
was at once released and the anchor fell from the bows into the water
with a great heavy splash, the chain cable jiggle-joggling along the
deck after it, and rushing madly through the hawse-hole with a roaring,
rattling noise like that of thunder!

CHAPTER FIVE.

CAPTAIN GILLESPIE COMES ABOARD.

"Oh!" I exclaimed at the same moment, drawing back hastily and tumbling
over the boatswain, who with Adams was now busy hauling inboard the
tackle of the disengaged cathead stopper. "I'm blinded!"

You see, I had been leaning over the bows, watching the operation of
letting go the anchor; and, as the ponderous mass of metal plunged into
the river, it sent up a column of spray on to the forecastle that came
slap into my face, drenching my clothes and wetting me almost to the
skin at the same time.

"Whisht, ma bouchal!" cried Tim Rooney, laughing at my sorry plight as I
picked myself up. "One'd think ye're kilt entoirely, wid all that row
ye'r makin'! Ye'll niver be