There was no longer any doubt about it.  The respectable and greatly-trusted Sam was letting off a series of wild howls which would have done credit to a penny-gaff Zulu, and was evidently very much out of temper about something.

“Ahoy, Thistle!  Ahoy!” bellowed the waterman, as he neared the schooner.  “Chuck us a rope?-quick!”

The mate threw him one, and the boat came alongside.  It was then seen that another waterman, using impatient and deplorable language, was forcibly holding Sam down in the boat.

“What’s he done?  What’s the row?” demanded the mate.

“Done?” said the waterman, in disgust.  “Done?  He’s ’ad a small lemon, an’ it’s got into his silly old head.  He’s making all this fuss ’cos he wanted to set the pub on fire, an’ they wouldn’t let him.  Man ashore told us they belonged to the Good Intent, but I know they’re your men.”

“Sam!” roared the skipper, with a sinking heart, as his glance fell on the recumbent figures in the boat; “come aboard at once, you drunken disgrace!  D’ye hear?”

“I can’t leave him,” said Sam, whimpering.

“Leave who?” growled the skipper.

“Him,” said Sam, placing his arms round the waterman’s neck.  “Him an’ me’s like brothers.”

“Get up, you old loonatic!” snarled the waterman, extricating himself with difficulty, and forcing the other towards the side.  “Now, up you go!”

Aided by the shoulders of the waterman and the hands of his superior officers, Sam went up, and then the waterman turned his attention to the remainder of his fares, who were snoring contentedly in the bottom of the boat.

“Now, then!” he cried; “look alive with you!  D’ye hear?  Wake up!  Wake up!  Kick ’em, Bill!”

“I can’t kick no ’arder,” grumbled the other waterman.

“What the devil’s the matter with ’em?” stormed the master of the Thistle, “Chuck a pail of water over ’em, Joe!”

Joe obeyed with gusto; and, as he never had much of a head for details, bestowed most of it upon the watermen.  Through the row which ensued the Thistle’s crew snored peacefully, and at last were handed up over the sides like sacks of potatoes, and the indignant watermen pulled back to the stairs.

“Here’s a nice crew to win a race with!” wailed the skipper, almost crying with rage.  “Chuck the water over ’em, Joe!  Chuck the water over ’em !”

Joe obeyed willingly, until at length, to the skipper’s great relief, one man stirred, and, sitting up on the deck, sleepily expressed his firm conviction that it was raining.  For a moment they both had hopes of him, but as Joe went to the side for another bucketful, he evidently came to the conclusion that he had been dreaming, and, lying down again, resumed his nap.  As he did so the first stroke of Big Ben came booming down the river.

“Eleven o’clock!” shouted the excited skipper.

It was too true.  Before Big Ben had finished, the neighbouring church clocks commenced striking with feverish haste, and hurrying feet and hoarse cries were heard proceeding from the deck of the good intent.