he had gone about two mile, and keep it burning till I come; then I manned my oars and shoved for the light.  As I got down towards it three or four more showed--up on a hillside.  It was a village.  I closed in above the shore light, and laid on my oars and floated.  As I went by I see it was a lantern hanging on the jackstaff of a double-hull ferryboat.  I skimmed around for the watchman, a-wondering whereabouts he slept; and by and by I found him roosting on the bitts forward, with his head down between his knees.  I gave his shoulder two or three little shoves, and begun to cry. He stirred up in a kind of a startlish way; but when he see it was only me he took a good gap and stretch, and then he says: “Hello, what's up?  Don't cry, bub.  What's the trouble?” I says: “Pap, and mam, and sis, and--” Then I broke down.  He says: “Oh, dang it now, _don't_ take on so; we all has to have our troubles, and this 'n 'll come out all right.  What's the matter with 'em?” “They're--they're--are you the watchman of the boat?” “Yes,” he says, kind of pretty-well-satisfied like. “I'm the captain and the owner and the mate and the pilot and watchman and head deck-hand; and sometimes I'm the freight and passengers.  I ain't as rich as old Jim Hornback, and I can't be so blame' generous and good to Tom, Dick, and Harry as what he is, and slam around money the way he does; but I've told him a many a time 't I wouldn't trade places with him; for, says I, a sailor's life's the life for me, and I'm derned if _I'd_ live two mile out o' town, where there ain't nothing ever goin' on, not for all his spondulicks and as much more on top of it.  Says I--” I broke in and says: “They're in an awful peck of trouble, and--” “_Who_ is?” “Why, pap and mam and sis and Miss Hooker; and if you'd take your ferryboat and go up there--” “Up where?  Where are they?” “On the wreck.” “What wreck?” “Why, there ain't but one.” “What, you don't mean the Walter Scott?” “Yes.” “Good land!