a man and a boy. The substance of the whole story was this. Tier had
been left ashore, as sometimes happens to sailors, and, by necessary
connection, was left to shift for himself. After making some vain
endeavours to rejoin his brig, he had shipped in one vessel after
another, until he accidentally found himself in the port of New
York, at the same time as the Swash. He know'd he never should be
truly happy ag'in until he could once more get aboard the old hussy,
and had hurried up to the wharf, where he understood the brig was
lying. As he came in sight, he saw she was about to cast off, and,
dropping his clothes-bag, he had made the best of his way to the
wharf, where the conversation passed that has been related.

"The gentleman on the wharf was about to take boat, to go through
the Gate," concluded Tier, "and so I begs a passage of him. He was
good-natured enough to wait until I could find my bag, and as soon
a'terwards as the men could get their grog we shoved off. The Molly
was just getting in behind Blackwell's as we left the wharf, and,
having four good oars, and the shortest road, we come out into the
Gate just ahead on you. My eye! what a place that is to go through
in a boat, and on a strong flood! The gentleman, who watched the
brig as a cat watches a mouse, says you struck on the Pot, as he
called it, but I says `no,' for the Molly Swash was never know'd to
hit rock or shoal in my time aboard her."

"And where did you quit that gentleman, and what has become of him?"
asked Spike.

"He put me ashore on that point above us, where I see'd a nigger
with his skiff, who I thought would be willin' to 'arn his quarter
by giving me a cast alongside. So here I am, and a long pull I've