I whirled my cap in the air, and ran to the stairs leading down
from the wharf, when a hand was laid gently on my shoulder. I
turned, and faced Captain Nutter (2 Tom Bailey's grandfather.) I
never saw such an old sharp-eye as he was in those days.

I knew he would not be angry with me for buying a rowboat; but I
also knew that the little bowsprit suggesting a jib and the
tapering mast ready for its few square feet of canvas were trifles
not likely to meet his approval. As far as rowing on the river,
among the wharves, was concerned, the Captain had long since
withdrawn his decided objections, having convinced himself, by
going out with me several times, that I could manage a pair of
sculls as well as anybody.

I was right in my surmises. He commanded me, in the most emphatic
terms, never to go out in the Dolphin without leaving the mast in
the boat-house. This curtailed my anticipated sport, but the
pleasure of having a pull whenever I wanted it remained. I never
disobeyed the Captain's orders touching the sail, though I
sometimes extended my row beyond the points he has indicated.

The river was dangerous for sailboats. Squalls, without the
slightest warning, were of frequent occurrence; scarcely a year
passed that three or four persons were not drowned under the very
windows of the town, and these, oddly enough, were generally
seacaptains, who either did not understand the river, or lacked the
skill to handle a small craft.

A knowledge of such disasters, one of which I witnessed, consoled
me somewhat when I saw Phil Adams skimming over the water in a