This is our turn."
In less than a minute after, for no apparent reason, the crowd around
Tristram surged forward to the bulwarks, and he was carried along
with the rush. Then he found himself swaying unsteadily down a
flight of steps and calling to the men behind not to hustle and
precipitate him into one or other of the two longboats that lay
below. Into the nearer of these his company swept him, and poured in
at his heels until the gunwale was nearly level with the water.
The rowers pushed off in the nick of time, and pulled their freight
slowly across the sullen tide, while the rain beat down relentlessly.
As they neared the shore, a landing-stage, or low jetty, of sunk
piles disengaged itself from the mist. This was the sole object that
diversified the melancholy line of sandbanks, and towards it they
were steered, Tristram looking eagerly out under the peak of his cap,
from which a rivulet of water was by this time coursing down his
nose.
Half a dozen grey figures were standing on the jetty, and, as the
soldiers scrambled up its dripping steps, one of them advanced and
touched Tristram by the elbow. It was his father.
"Safe and sound, my boy? _Parbleu!_ but it's easy to see you're no
accomplished sailor; but that's all the better.
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