We find the pier gay with summer costumes and smiling faces; friend greets friend after the hearty, robust English fashion which has not yet died out ‘east of Temple Bar;’ the river gleams with a thousand silver ripples in the morning sun; the heat is tempered by an exhilarating breeze; everybody prophesies that we shall have a glorious day. The majority of those on the pier are waiting the arrival of the excursion steamers from London Bridge. We, more fortunate than many, are the recipients of an invitation to a private party which numbers, all told, some five-and-thirty souls. Presently, from among a cloud of others we single out the particular bit of bunting we have been told to look for; and there, at her temporary moorings at the upper end of the pier, we find the smart little _Cygnet_, our home that is to be for the next dozen hours. Old acquaintances welcome us with a cordial grip as we step on board, and new acquaintanceships are made, which in their turn will, we hope, grow riper by-and-by. And now we have time to look about us.
The _Cygnet_ is gay with bunting from stem to stern. Aft, a large awning is stretched, which will serve as a protection from either sun or rain, as the case may be. Camp-stools in abundance are provided, so that we can shift our quarters as we may list; and some neighbouring hotel has supplied us with several oblong mahogany tables, for which an excellent use will be found later on. Hampers crammed with good things solid and liquid are being brought on board one after another; and some one below deck is taking Time by the forelock already, in the way of putting a preliminary edge on the carving-knife. We are evidently going to have what our American cousins call ‘a high old time’ of it.
In confidence we may whisper that our little _Cygnet_ is neither more nor less than a Channel steam-tug—one of that numerous fleet which scour the English Channel from the Lizard to the Languard, from the Mouse Light to Dunkirk, on the lookout for homeward-bound ships which, anxious to save a tide or two, and reach their moorings in dock as quickly as may be, are willing to pay for the help that will enable them to do so. A rough life, my masters, and not without its dangers when the stormy winds do blow. Often in wild midwinter weather, or when the equinoctials seem as if they were tearing heaven and earth asunder, these little craft will remain out for days and nights together, afraid to risk making for any harbour, and preferring to keep in the open while waiting for the gale to blow itself out. Only a few winters ago, as the _Napoleon_ steam-tug was towing a huge liner up the Channel in the teeth of a tremendous storm of wind and sleet, her hawser parted, and when, some two minutes later, the crew of the big ship had time to look for the tug, she was nowhere to be seen. At the moment her hawser broke she had been struck by a heavy sea, and had plunged down head foremost, she and all her crew. As a rule, however, these sturdy little craft, which are built as strongly as iron and timber can make them, will safely ride out a gale such as might well cause many a big merchantman to quake with fear.