Peter Trawl: The Adventures of a Whaler
Nonfiction, Religion & Spirituality, New Age, History, Fiction & Literature
| Author: | William Henry Giles Kingston | ISBN: | 9781465597168 |
| Publisher: | Library of Alexandria | Publication: | March 8, 2015 |
| Imprint: | Language: | English |
| Author: | William Henry Giles Kingston |
| ISBN: | 9781465597168 |
| Publisher: | Library of Alexandria |
| Publication: | March 8, 2015 |
| Imprint: | |
| Language: | English |
brother Jack, a seaman’s bag over his shoulders, trudged sturdily ahead; father followed, carrying the oars, spars, sails, and other gear of the wherry, while as I toddled alongside him I held on with one hand to the skirt of his pea-jacket, and griped the boat-hook which had been given to my charge with the other. From the front of the well-known inn, the “Keppel’s Head,” the portrait of the brave old admiral, which I always looked at with awe and admiration, thinking what a great man he must have been, gazed sternly down on us as we made our way along the Common Hard of Portsea towards the water’s edge. Father and Jack hauled in the wherry, and having deposited their burdens in her, set to work to mop her out and to put her to rights, while I stood, still grasping the boat-hook, which I held upright with the point in the ground, watching their proceedings, till father, lifting me up in his arms, placed me in the stern-sheets. “Sit there, Peter, and mind you don’t topple overboard, my son,” he said, in the kind tone in which he always spoke to me and Jack. I was too small to be of much use, indeed father had hitherto only taken me with him when he was merely going across to Gosport and back or plying about the harbour. It was a more eventful day to Jack than to me. When I saw mother packing his bag, I had a sort of idea that he was going to sea, and when the next morning she threw her arms round his neck and burst into tears, and Jack began to cry too, I understood that he would be away for a long time.
brother Jack, a seaman’s bag over his shoulders, trudged sturdily ahead; father followed, carrying the oars, spars, sails, and other gear of the wherry, while as I toddled alongside him I held on with one hand to the skirt of his pea-jacket, and griped the boat-hook which had been given to my charge with the other. From the front of the well-known inn, the “Keppel’s Head,” the portrait of the brave old admiral, which I always looked at with awe and admiration, thinking what a great man he must have been, gazed sternly down on us as we made our way along the Common Hard of Portsea towards the water’s edge. Father and Jack hauled in the wherry, and having deposited their burdens in her, set to work to mop her out and to put her to rights, while I stood, still grasping the boat-hook, which I held upright with the point in the ground, watching their proceedings, till father, lifting me up in his arms, placed me in the stern-sheets. “Sit there, Peter, and mind you don’t topple overboard, my son,” he said, in the kind tone in which he always spoke to me and Jack. I was too small to be of much use, indeed father had hitherto only taken me with him when he was merely going across to Gosport and back or plying about the harbour. It was a more eventful day to Jack than to me. When I saw mother packing his bag, I had a sort of idea that he was going to sea, and when the next morning she threw her arms round his neck and burst into tears, and Jack began to cry too, I understood that he would be away for a long time.
