and hard biscuit,
and bags of oakum; and, Jack, they will give them to you for nothing,
for sailors don't care what they give away when they come from a long
voyage; and so mind you beg for me as much as you can, that's a good
boy; but don't take live monkeys or those things, they eat so much. You
may bring me a parrot, I think I could sell one, and that don't cost
much to feed. Do you understand, Jack? Will you do this for me?"

"I don't know whether I can do all you wish, but depend upon it, mother,
I won't forget you."

"That's enough, Jack, you'll keep your word; and now, is there any nice
thing that I can give you out of my shop, as a keepsake, Jack?"

"Why, no, mother, I thank you,--nothing."

"Think of something, Jack," replied old Nanny; "you must have
something."

"Well, then, mother, you know I like reading; will you give me the old
book that I was reading when I sat up with you one night?"

"Yes, Jack, and welcome; what book is it? I don't know--I can't see to
read large print without spectacles, and I, broke mine many years ago."

"Why do you not buy another pair?"

"Another pair, Jack? Spectacles cost money. I've no money; and as I
never read, I don't want spectacles. Go in and fetch the book; it's
yours and welcome."

I went in and brought out the Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress" which I
before mentioned. "This is it, mother."

"Yes, yes, I recollect now, it's a very pretty book. What's it about,
Jack? I can't see myself: never mind, take it, Jack, and don't forget
your promise."

I wished old Nanny good bye, and took the book home, which I gave into
Virginia's care, as I wished her to read it. The next morning, at
daybreak, I was summoned; the ship was dropping down the river. I bade
farewell to my little sister, who wept on my shoulder; to my mother, who
hardly condescended to answer me. My father helped me down with my
luggage, which was not very heavy; and Anderson and old Ben accompanied
us to the landing-steps; and having bid them all farewell, besides many
others of my friends who were there, I stepped into the boat sent for
me; and quitted Greenwich for my new avocation on the 6th of October,
1799, being then, as Anderson had calculated, precisely thirteen years
and seven months old.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

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,