I'd been at sea with father off and
on ever since I was about nine years old, and a smarter boy wasn't
to be found on the beach. The Dolphin was a good sea boat, but she
wasn't, so to say, fast, and I dunno' as she was much to look at,
for the old man wasn't the sort of chap to chuck away his money in
paint or in new sails as long as the old ones could be pieced and
patched so as to hold the wind. We sailed out pretty nigh over to
the French coast, and good sport we had. We'd been out two days when
we turned her head homewards. The wind was blowing pretty strong,
and the old man remarked, he thought we was in for a gale. There
was some talk of our running in to Calais and waiting till it had
blown itself out, but the fish might have spoil before the Wind
dropped, so we made up our minds to run straight into Dover and
send the fish up from there. The night came on wild and squally,
and as dark as pitch. It might be about eight bells, and I and one
of the other hands had turned in, when father gave a sudden shout
down the hatch, 'All hands on deck.' I was next to the steps and
sprang up 'em. Just as I got to the top something grazed my face.
I caught at it, not knowing what it was, and the next moment there
was a crash, and the Dolphin went away from under my feet.
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