HIS YARNS AGAIN--HOW TO PUT YOUR FOOT IN
A MISCHIEF, WITHOUT HAVING A HAND IN IT--CANDIDATES FOR THE
CAT-O'-NINE-TAILS.

We soon recovered the road, and in half-an-hour we were at Putney
Bridge; cold, wet, and tired, but not so bad as when we were stationary
under the gallows; the quick walking restored the circulation. Tom went
in for the bottle of spirits, while I went for the sculls and carried
them down to the boat, which was high and dry, and nearly up to the
thwarts with snow. When Tom joined me, he appeared with two bottles
under his arms. "I have taken another upon tick, Jacob," said he, "for
I'm sure we want it, and so will father say, when he hears our story."
We launched our boat, and in a couple of minutes were close to the
lighter, on the deck of which stood old Tom.

"Boat ahoy! is that you, lads?" cried he.

"Yes, father, all's right," replied Tom, as we laid in our oars.

"Thank God!" replied the old man. "Boys, boys, how you frightened me?
where have you been? I thought you had met with some disaster. How
have I been peeping through the snow-storm these last two hours,
watching for the boat, and I'm as wet as a shag and as cold as charity.
What has been the matter? Did you bring the bottle, Tom?"

"Yes, father; brought two, for we shall want them to-night if we go
without for a week; but we must all get on dry rigging as fast as
possible, and then you shall have the story of our cruise."

In a few minutes we had changed our wet clothes and were seated at the
cabin-table, eating our supper, and narrating our adventures to the old
man. Tommy, poor fellow, had his share, and now lay snoring at our
feet, as the bottles and pannikins were placed upon the little table.

"Come, Jacob, a drop will do you good," said old Tom, filling me one of
the pannikins. "A'ter all, it's much better being snug here in this
little cabin than shivering with fear and cold under old Abershaw's
gallows; and Tom, you scamp, if ever you go gunning again I'll
disinherit you."

"What have you got to leave, father, except your wooden legs?" replied
Tom. "Your's would be but a _wooden-leg_-acy."

"How do you know but what I can `_post the coal_?'"

"So you will, if I boil a pot o' 'tatoes with your legacy--but it will
only be char-coal."

"Well, I believe you are about right, Tom; still, somehow or other, the
old woman always picks out a piece or two of gold when I'm rather
puzzled how to raise the wind. I neve