One morning we were out on the beach—­we had been conversing with the other pilots, and examining the vessels in the offing with my glass—­when he pointed out to me, it being low neap tide, that the Goodwin Sands were partially dry.  “Tom,” continued he, “of all the dangers, not only of the Channel, but in the wide ocean, there is none to be compared with those sands—­the lives that have been lost on them, the vessels that have been wrecked, and the property that has been sucked into them, would be a dozen kings’ ransoms; for, you see, Tom, they are quicksands, and the vessel which goes on shore does not remain to be broken up, but in two tides she disappears, sinking down into the sands, which never give her or her cargo up again.  There must be a mighty deal of wealth buried there, that is certain.  They say that once they were a flourishing fertile island, belonging to an Earl Godwin, whose name they now bear; it may be so—­the sea retreats from one place while it advances at another.  Look at Romney Marshes, where so many thousands of sheep are now fed.  They run up many miles inland; and yet formerly those very marshes were an arm of the sea, which vessels rode in deep water, and sea-fights, I am told, took place.  Howsomever, when the sea took the Godwin island to itself it made the best trap for vessels that old Neptune now possesses, and he may consider it as the most productive spot in his dominions.  Lord help us! what a deal of gold and merchandise must there be buried below yon yellow patch!”

“Do you never save anything when vessels are run on shore there?”

“When they only tail on, we occasionally get them off again; but when once fixed, there’s an end of it.  Yes, we save life occasionally, but at great risk of our own.  I saved little Bessy from a vessel ashore on these sands.”

“Indeed!  Pray tell me how it was.”

“Why, you see, Tom, it was just at the breaking out of the war.  It was in this very month of October, ’93, that I was out in a galley with some others, looking for vessels.  I had just then left off privateering, and got my warrant as pilot (for you know I did serve my ’prenticeship, before I went a-privateering, as I told you the other night).  Well, it was a blowing night, and we were running in for the Downs, intending to beach the galley and sleep on shore, for we had been out five days, and only put a pilot on board of one vessel.  We were just to windward of the Sands, out there, where I am now pointing.  The sea was very rough, but the night was clear, and the moon shone bright, when we saw a brig running down before the wind, under foresail and close-reefed topsails.  ‘Why, Bill, as she steers she’ll be right between the Callipers,’ said I to the man sitting by me.  ‘There’s no mistake about that,’ replied he; ’let’s haul the foresheet to windward, and lay to, to hail him; he’s coming right down upon us.’  Well, we did so, and we hailed some time without any answer.  At last