strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of the flying skiff. But he could
only discern a black and shapeless mass, floating upon the water at a
little distance, which, to his bewildered fancy, appeared absolutely
standing still. To the practised eye of the waterman matters wore a very
different air. He perceived clearly enough, that the chase was moving
quickly; and he was also aware, from the increased rapidity with which
the oars were urged, that every exertion was made on board to get out of
the reach of her pursuers. At one moment, it seemed as if the flying
bark was about to put to shore. But this plan (probably from its danger)
was instantly abandoned; not, however, before her momentary hesitation
had been taken advantage of by her pursuers, who, redoubling their
efforts at this juncture, materially lessened the distance between them.

Ben watched these manoeuvres with great interest, and strained every
sinew in his frame to keep ahead of the other boats.

"Them's catchpoles, I s'pose, Sir, arter the gemman with a writ?" he
observed.

"Something worse, I fear," Wood replied.

"Why, you don't think as how they're crimps, do you?" Ben inquired.

"I don't know what I think," Wood answered sulkily; and he bent his eyes
upon the water, as if he wished to avert his attention forcibly from the
scene.

There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy
in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. The sounds that reach the
ear, and the objects that meet the eye, are all calculated to awaken a