In which a Story is begun, and not finished, which I think the
Reader will regret as much as, at the time, I did.
The boat was soon alongside of the West Indiaman, which had been tiding
it down Limehouse Reach under her topsails, there being but little wind,
and that contrary; but now that she had arrived to Greenwich Reach she
had braced up, with her head the right way. My box was handed up the
side, and I made my appearance on the deck soon afterward, with my
telescope in my hand.
"Are you the lad for whom the pilot sent the boat?" inquired a man, whom
I afterward found to be the second mate.
"Yes," replied I.
"Well, there he is abaft, in a P-jacket," said he, walking to the
gangway, and directing the men to drop the boat astern.
I looked aft, and perceived my future master talking with the captain of
the vessel. Philip Bramble was a spare man, about five feet seven inches
high, he had on his head a low-crowned tarpaulin hat, a short P-jacket
(so called from the abbreviation of _pilot's_ jacket) reached down to
just above his knees. His features were regular, and, indeed, although
weatherbeaten, they might be termed handsome. His nose was perfectly
straight, his lips thin, his eyes gray and very keen; he had little or
no whiskers, and, from his appearance and the intermixture of gray with
his brown hair, I supposed him to be about fifty years of age. In one
hand he held a short clay pipe, into which he was inserting the
forefinger of the other, as he talked with the captain. At the time that
he was pointed out to me by the second mate he was looking up aloft; I
had, therefore, time to make the above observations before he cast his
eyes down and perceived me, when I immediately went aft to him.
"I suppose you are Tom Saunders?" said he, surveying me from head to
foot.