or
fifty year an' more, an' I say, I tell thee, that two oars be better
than two reefs any day. Le'but the seas take charge o' one o' they
boats running afore the wind.... All up! They spins like a top, an'
gybes.... 'Tis all up! Howsbe-ever, they'm saafe now, if they don't
sheer broadside coming ashore. But _they_ won't learn their lesson; not
they. They maakes fun o' us as knows.

"There! the wind be softening now. I've a-know'd they thunder-puffs
come down on 'ee like a hurricane. If they lasted long.... 'Tis blowin'
out in the Channel still. The horizon's black--see? 'Twill back, an'
blow from the nor'east to-night, in here, but 'twill be east to
south-east in the Channel, an' wi' thees flood tide runnin' up against
it, yu'll see the say make!"

23

It did blow during the night; it must have been rough out in the
Channel; then the wind dropped to a light breeze. But before ever Tony
and myself were out of doors we heard the heave and thump of the long
easterly swell.

We hauled the _Cock Robin_ down to the water's edge, put in five bags
of ballast ("Doesn't look 's if it's blow'd itself out," said Tony) and
a spare oar--and stood and looked.

"Be it wuth it?" he questioned.

"Not much wind now, is there?"

"Can the two o'us shove off in thees yer swell? Can ee see any o' the
other boats shoving down?"

"No...."

"There won't be much frighting to-day, for sure. Must make the day gude
if us can. Yer's a calm. Jump in quick. Shove! Shove, casn'! Row. Lemme
take an oar. Keep her head on. _Pull_--thic west'ard oar!"

[Sidenote: _PLUCK--_]

We were fairly afloat outside the surf-line, both of us very red in the
face. We upsailed--and away. After a few minutes' worry, deciding
whether the mainsail and mizzen without the foresail would be enough,
on a sea so much bigger than the wind, and looking for the _Cock
Robin's_ chronic leak, the bouncing, tumbling and splashing, the
heave up and the mighty rushes down, put us both in high spirits. We
decided to hoist the foresail after all. "Let her bury her head if her
wants to!"

Accordingly, I went for'ard to hook the foresail's tack to the bumkin
[short iron bowsprit]. The thimble was too small. As I sat on the bow
and leaned out over, my hand all but dipped into the waves. A stream of
water did once run up my sleeve. Looking round and seeing Tony smile, I
yelled back aft: "What be smiling 'bout, Tony?" He replied: "I was
a-gloryin' in yer pluck."

Which wa