heaved this out, and then payed out all the chain, and sheered
with the rudder, but still she was in shoal water. Finally, as the wind
increased, I had to haul in both anchors and shove out into the deep, and
thus, by omitting to do right at once what was easy at the time, the
whole night had been consumed by intervals of wet and needless trouble.

Life in the yawl had now become such a pleasant life, that to leave it
was a duty deferred as long as possible. We ranged several times up and
down the Thames, visiting many an old nook, well known in former days;
Holy Haven for instance; it is now thirty-three years since we first
harboured there in a little sailing-boat and spent a night with a collier
captain, and learned more of coals and colliers than one could read in a
week. This was done by keeping him resolutely on the point the man knew
all about until he was quite pumped dry. This nice little refuge-harbour
is the one I like best in all the river, with only one house--no bother
from shore folks, deep channel, and clean sand to anchor in. If it were
not for this narrow and safe retreat, there would often be hard times in
stormy days between Gravesend and Sheerness.

The first time the Rob Roy went into Holy Haven, we found a yacht there
with a lady and gentleman on board, who of course (invariable and
excellent custom) were hospitable when they read my flag. Tiny ripples
were the only sounds of the evening, and on looking out on a new day, the
round smooth sand was bare beside me, with a lonely gull preening its
soft white wing, and its calm eye unfrightened, for no one could have the
heart to harm the pretty creature there. The next time of a visit to
this peaceful haven, there was another little craft at anchor, and in
five minutes after we stopped the owner of it sent his card, with the
customary invitation, to come on board. He was a sailor solicitor who
lives on the water in summer (being wise), but does not venture out of
the Thames (being prudent), and he has a boy "Jim" who hands out cooked
things from an inscrutable forecastle, where he sleeps at night in a sort
of coal-scuttle. Nevertheless the two together seemed perfectly happy.

By way of variety, the Rob Roy on leaving Margate the next time set off
in the dark night, to sail away under the stars, and by some curious good
luck we managed to pass as close to the buoy at Reculver as ever one
could do in the light. Next time we came to Margate th