Clinton by Walter Aimwell — Read

For the first few hours at sea, Jerry was little better than a piece of lumber, in everybody's way. Nobody told him what to do, and, indeed, he was pretty diligently employed in watching the quick movements of the sailors, for the purpose of dodging out of their path. But, with all his alertness, he was not quick enough to avoid being sometimes rudely shoved one side, with a muttered imprecation on his head for getting in the way. The city now began to recede rapidly from view. The State House dome, the church spires, and the forest of ship-masts along the water-side, were all that could be distinguished in the city proper. East Boston, with clouds of smoke ascending from its numerous foundries, was in full view in the distance; while nearer at hand, on the right, was South Boston, with its highlands, its large public buildings, and its many work-shops with tall chimneys. The last sound that came from shore, was the striking of the church clocks. There was a brisk north-west wind, before which the brig dashed along at a rapid rate. Soon they were sailing between two fortresses, situated on islands about a mile apart, and commanding the only channel by which large vessels can enter or leave the port. Several other islands were in sight, on some of which there were large buildings. They also passed near two light-houses-tall towers built on islands, with dwelling-houses near by for their keepers. Towards noon, the pilot, whose business it is to guide vessels in and out of the harbor, took leave of the brig, and returned to port in a small sail-boat. But little land was now in sight, and the broad ocean, dotted with white sails, was spread out before them.

The sun shone pleasantly upon the waters, but the wind was raw and cold, and Jerry began to realize that he must stir about to keep warm. He was slowly sauntering along, to see for the fiftieth time if he could find anything to do, when he was accosted in a rough voice by one of the men, who said: -