Yes, on that return of the last voyage of the brig the stream had swarmed
with boats, flags had fluttered from housetops and staffs, piers and quays
had been lined with cheering people, all flocking forth to see the broken,
battered little craft; for the brig had been spoken by a tug, and word had
been brought to the wharves, and had spread like wild-fire through the
town, that, wrecked in a tempest and deserted by the panic-stricken crew,
the steadfast master and a boy who stood by him had remained with her, had
refitted her as best they might when the storm abated, and had brought her
into port at last through fortunate days of fair weather and slow sailing.
The town was ringing with the exploit, with praise of the noble
faithfulness of master and boy; and now the river rang again, and no
conquering galley of naval hero ever moved through a gladder, gayer
welcome than that through which the little black brig lumbered on her
clumsy way to her moorings.
But though all the rest of the populace of the seaport had turned out with
their greetings that day, there was one little body there who, so far from
hurrying down to shore or sea-wall with a waving handkerchief, ran crying
into a corner; and it was there that Andrew Traverse, the person of only
secondary importance in the river scene, rated as a boy on the brig's
books, but grown into a man since the long voyage began,--it was there he
found her when the crowd had let him alone and left him free to follow his
own devices.
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