of the wharf, where we were finally halted abreast of a lumping brig,
apparently nearly ready for sea. There were more than forty of us as I
counted the fellows, and we were rounded up at the extremity of the
wharf in the full blaze of the sun, with a line of guards stretched
across to hold back the crowd until preparations had been completed to
admit us aboard. As those in front flung themselves down on the
planks, I got view of the brig's gangway, along which men were still
busily hauling belated boxes and barrels, and beyond these gained
glimpse of the hooker's name--ROMPING BETSY OF PLYMOUTH. A moment
later a sailor passed along the edge of the dock, dragging a coil of
rope after him, and must have answered some hail on his way, for
instantly a whisper passed swiftly from man to man.

"It's Virginia, mate; we're bound fer Virginia."

The ugly little pig eyes of the butcher met mine.

"Virginia, hey?" he grunted. "Ye're a sailorman, ain't ye, mate? Well,
then, whar is this yere Virginia?"

The boy was looking at me also questioningly, the terror in his face
by no means lessened at the sound of this strange word.

"Yes, sir, please; where is it, sir?"

I patted him on the shoulder, as others near by leaned forward to
catch my answer.

"That's all right, mates," I returned cheerfully. "It's across the
blue water, of course, but better than the Indies. We'll fall into the