Explore "Cornered!" by W. Clark Russell on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
"I don't see no signs of the tug, do you, Tom? " said the old skipper, John Bunk, rolling up to me from the companion hatchway. He was fresh from the cabin, and was rather tipsy, with a fixed stare and a stately manner, though his legs would have framed the lower part of an egg. His hat was tall, and brushed the wrong way. He wore a thick shawl round his neck and was wrapped up in a long monkey-jacket, albeit we were in the dog-days. In a word, Bunk was a skipper of a type that is fast perishing off our home waters.
"No," said I, "there's no sign of the tug."