I had a few shillings in my pocket, and away I went, wending my way down the river to the Great East India docks at Blackwell. Lying in the Export dock nearly ready for sea was a large Indianman, on board of which I stole. The riggers were aloft bending sails and, in the bright sunshine the life and color—the salt water smells of tarry ropes and new canvas—intoxicated and fascinated me.
I wandered about the ship unheeded—watched the cargo lowered down the hatches and lastly forced by an irresistible longing to go aft—clambered into the port fore-rigging and crawled up the first two or three ratlines above the sheer pole.
Some one sprung beneath me, and before I knew what had happened, I found my feet seized with rope yarns to the shrouds, and a voice sung out—"Now, Young 'un, you'll have to pay your footing."
What was meant by this very rude person, clad in a tarry jumper and a pair of very dirty overalls, I hadn't the least idea. I felt uncomfortable, and my uneasiness increased on seeing the mate coming forward with a grin on his face, calling out "Come down out of that, youngster! What are you doing up there!"
He had me cast adrift, and I gave all the money I had to the man who lashed me up, on his explaining to me that any one not belonging to the ship, venturing aloft had to "pay their footing"—in other words stand drinks to the men.
The mate called me aft and began to question me, discovering among other things my name and who I was.
"Want to go to sea, do you? Well, you take my advice, youngster. Go back home as quickly as you can, and if you must go to sea get your father to send you—and don't try running away any more. If you don't promise me—I'll tie you up to a stanchion till knock-off time, and then, damm me! I'll take you back myself."
