Seated on the after cabin-top near the wheel, Sam Prawle made known to us the arcana of barging. The comparison with yachting was to the disadvantage of yachting, and we felt that he would not have ventured to take this line had we still owned the Playmate. On the other hand, we were gratified at being treated with frankness as members of his profession.

‘I don’t reckon,’ said Sam Prawle, ‘there ain’t nawthen as good as bargin’, same as on the water, my meanin’ is. Ye see, yaou gets home fairly frequent, yaou ain’t got no long sea-passages to make, yaou can see a bit o’ life in the taowns, and ef yaou’ve got a good little ould barge and freights is anyways good ye can make a tidy bit o’ money.

‘Then agin, in respect o’ livin’, most all barges carries a gun, and there’s some I could name as carries oyster drudges; then there’s a bit o’ fishin’ to be done, and accordin’ to where yaou’re brought up there may be winkles, or mussels, or cockles, and, as I says, chance time a few oysters; so my meanin’ is the livin’ is good.

‘A course that don’t do for it to be knaown ye carries a drudge no more than that do to be seen pickin’ up oysters nit winkles in some places, same as on the Corporation’s graounds in the Maldon River. But outside them graounds that does no detriment. I dessay yaou remember some time back abaout they chaps what was caught pickin’ up winkles in the Maldon River. Well, the judge give it agin them, for a course the Corporation has all the fishin’ rights above them beacons. But the most amusingest part was, they chaps’ lawyer tried to make aout a winkle warn’t a fish, but a wild animal. Yes, yes; they lost right enough.

‘Us allus used to live wonnerful well on the ould Kate, for I had a mate, Bill Summers, who was a masterpiece at shoot’n’. He were suthen strorng, he were, and had masterous great limbs on ’im, but none the more for that he were a wonnerful easy-spoken chap. I’ve knaowed he caught a many times by same as keepers and that, but he allus had some excuse or spoke ’em fair. Leastways, he den’t never git into trouble.

‘I remember one November day there’d bin a heavy dag in the fore part o’ the day which cleared off towards the afternoon, and Bill went ashore after a hare or whatever he could git daown on they ould mashes away to the eastward there. A wonnerful lonely place that is—no housen nor nawthen but they great ould mashes. A course Bill den’t reckon there’d be anyone a lookin’ after the shootin’ daown there, but there were. But as I was a tellin’ yer, Bill most allus knaowed what to say to such as they. Well, just afore that come dark, about flight time, I raowed the boat ashore to the edge o’ the mud on the lookaout for Bill. I waited some time, and that grew darker and darker, and them watery birds and curlew kep’ all on a callin’, and one o’ they ould frank-herons come a flappin’ overhead, and that fared wonnerful an’ lonesome.

‘Well, I was jist a wonderin’ whether I hadn’t better goo and look for Bill in case he’d got stuck in one o’ they fleets what run acrost mashes, or had come to some hurt, for a man might lay aout there days and weeks afore anyone might hap to find ’im. Then I heard suthen and sees Bill a comin’ suthen fast along the top o’ the sea-wall with another chap a comin’ arter ’im. “Ullo,” I thinks, “Bill’s in trouble,” so I gives a whistle, and Bill answers and comes straight on daown the mud towards the bo’t with his gun in one hand and an ould hare or suthen in the other. When he gits half-way daown the mud Bill turns raound to the chap a follerin’ and says, “Do yaou ever read the noospapers, mate?”

‘The chap, he den’t say nawthen, so Bill stops and ’as a look at ’is gun, and then he says agin werry slow, “Funny things you reads of ’appenin’ in the noospapers.”

‘Well, that chap den’t fare to come no further, and Bill finishes ’is walk daown the mud alone. Wonnerful easy-spoken chap, ’e was. Yes, yes; us allus had good livin’ on the Kate.

‘Then agin, same as summer-time, maybe yaou’ve got a fair freight, or yaou’re doin’ a bit o’ cotcheling, and yaou’re a layin’ up some snug creek, and the tides ain’t just right for gittin’ away, and yaou has to wait three or faour days. Well, that’s wonnerful comfortable, that is, specially ef there’s a bit of a village handy. Or same as layin’ wind-baound winter-time, maybe twenty barges all together—and I remember sixty-two layin’ wind-baound at the mouth o’ the Burnham River once’t—well, that’ll be a rum ’un if there ain’t a bit o’ jollification goin’ on aboard some o’ they. Yes, yes; I allus says bargin’ is what ye likes to make it.

‘What other craft can a man take his missus in—leastways, ef he has a mind to? They what ain’t got little ’uns often takes their wives with ’em, and summer-time they can often manage without a mate in same as ninety-ton barges. A course, that’s a bit awk’ard ef ye gits into trouble, for a woman can’t do what a man can, and a man can’t allus say what he wants to ef he has the missus with him.

‘But that’s true, women’s wonnerful artful, and I’ve knaowed a woman say suthen more better than what a man could. When ould Ted Wetherby—a wonnerful hard-swearin’ man—took his missus with him, they was nearly run daown by a torpedo bo’t in the Medway. That young lootenant in charge pitched into Ted suthen cruel, but Ted he den’t say nawthen till that young chap was abaout in the middle of what ’e ’ad to say, and then ’e jist up and says, “Ush! Ladies at the hellum!” And then the lootenant turns on Ted’s missus, and tells she jist what he thought about Ted and the barge. Ted’s missus den’t say nawthen neither till they was jist sheerin’ off, and then she says, “I don’t take no more notus o’ what yaou say than ef ye ain’t never spoke.” Bill tould me he reckoned that lootenant were more wild than ef Bill ’ad spoke hisself.

‘Then agin, a skipper of a barge is most all the time his own master in a manner o’ speakin’. A course, some says yachtin’ is easier, and maybe it is, but I don’t hould with it. I’ve met scores o’ yacht skippers and had many a yarn along o’ they, but I’d rather be skipper of a little ould barge than any yacht afloat. My cousin, Seth Smith, is skipper of a yacht, and he’s tould me some o’ the wrinkles o’ yachtin’.

‘From what I can ’ear of it, there’s owners and owners. Accordin’ to some, they what don’t knaow nawthen fare to be the best kind to be with. Leastways, that’s a wonnerful thing haow long a yacht will lay off a place the skipper and crew likes. I remember one beautiful little wessel a layin’ off the same blessed ould place week after week, so I ast a chap I knaowed if she den’t never git under way. “Well,” ’e says, “yaou see, the owner, he don’t knaow nawthen, and the skipper and crew belongs ’ere. Chance time they do get under way, but we most allus says o’ she ’ef there ain’t enough wind to blaow a match aout there ain’t enough wind for she to muster, and ef there’s enough wind to blaow a match aout that’s too much for she, as the sayin’ is.”

‘But there’s owners what sails their own wessels, and Seth says as haow they is good enough to be along with, for ef they gits into trouble they gits into trouble, and that ain’t nawthen to do with the crew.

‘But they owners what knaows a little is the worst, because they thinks they knaows everything, in a manner o’ speakin’, and the skipper has to be wonnerful careful. Yaou see, the trouble lays along o’ the steerin’. A course, most anyone can steer, though they don’t git the best aout of a wessel, but same as owners an’ they allus fare to reckon that steerin’ is everything, which a course it ain’t. Seth has tould me a score o’ times, he has, “Sam,” he says, “that’s a strain on a man, that is, for he’s got to keep all on a watchin’ his owner to see he keeps the wessel full or don’t gybe she, or one thing an’ another. Naow same as tackin’ up this ’ere little ould river,” he says, “or standin’ into shaoal water, ye just says to me comfortable like, ‘Shove the ould gal round,’ whereas my meanin’ is that ’on’t do for a yacht skipper to say that to his owner. No, no; that ’on’t do; he’s got to goo careful like. Maybe he’ll say, ‘What do you think abaout comin’ abaout sir?’ Then maybe—if there ain’t no visitors aboard—the owner’ll say, ‘Let ’er come.’ Then agin, maybe there’s visitors aboard, and the owner ’e takes a look raound and says, ‘In another length,’ or suthen o’ that.”

‘But ef the skipper’s bearin’ a hand with suthen, or for one thing or another he leaves that a bit late, so as he ain’t got time to ask the owner what e’ thinks and let him have his look raound so that fare as haow he’s in charge, but jist says, “Shove her round,” quick like, then the owner ain’t over and above pleased—especially if there’s visitors aboard, as I was a sayin’. That’s ill convenient, that is, for ef she don’t come raound quick enough she’ll take the graound, and then the skipper’s got to say a hill has graowed up or a landmark’s bin cut daown or suthen, and kaidge she off too; and a course, same as on the ebb, that’s a hundred to one she ’on’t shift till she fleet next tide. Yes, yes; a skipper’s got to be wonnerful forehanded as well as careful what ’e says.

‘I remember a friend o’ mine, Jem Selby, goin’ along of a gent who was wonnerful praoud o’ his cruises, what ’e did without a skipper. He on’y took Jem, he said, cos Jem were a deep-water man and hadn’t never been in a yacht afore, but on’y in same as barques and ships and wessels similar-same to that, and ’e wanted a man just to cook and put him ashore. Well, this gent and Jem brought the little yacht—I can’t remember her name—from Lowestoft daown to Falmouth, and the gent was wonnerful praoud o’ hisself, as they’d been aout in some tidy breezes. He was a tellin’ of his friends at Falmouth all abaout his adventures, and the gales o’ wind they had come through, when he turns to Jem, who was standin’ by, and says, “What do yaou say to goin’ raound Land’s End to-morrer, Jem?” “Well, I don’t knaow, sir,” says Jem; “yaou see, we’re a gettin’ near the sea now.” Maybe it were that, maybe it warn’t, but ’e den’t ast Jem to sail along o’ he next season.

‘Well, there yaou are now. Ye can’t do nawthen and ye can’t say nawthen. No, no; from what I can ’ear of it and from what I can see of it, yachtin’ ain’t in the same street as bargin’, as the sayin’ is. Let alone, some o’ they chaps never does a hand’s turn o’ work from one week to another ’cept maybe polish a bit o’ brass work.

‘Seth says as haow that ain’t a bad job to be in charge of a little yacht with a party o’ young chaps, same as on their holiday. Young chaps, same as they, never drinks without the skipper, and a course they most allus lives well, so the skipper do too. Then agin, yaou see they likes to do all the work, and the skipper just puggles abaout like and tells they what to do, though a course they wants lookin’ arter none the more for that. Maybe on dewy nights the skipper ’as to goo raound quiet like and ease up the halyards, for young chaps is all for havin’ everything smart and taut; but that ain’t nawthen, and he can most allus do that while they has their supper.

‘From what I see of it myself, I reckon young chaps same as they is a bit troublesome goin’ into harbour. I remember seein’ a party o’ faour come into Lowestoft in a little yacht—a doddy little thing, she were—with an ould fellow in charge. The Lord Nelson was just startin’ for Yarmouth, so they couldn’t berth until she’d gone, and as I happed to be standin’ by I made fast the lines the ould chap thraowed on the pier. Well, the band was a playin’ and the pier crowded with gals a watchin’ the yachts in the harbour, and they young chaps den’t fare to be able to keep quiet like with them gals a lookin’ on, and kep’ all on worritin’ the ould chap to knaow ef they hadn’t better give a pull on this or a pull on t’other. Then I seed the artful ould chap give one on ’em the headrope to hould and another the starn rope—though they might just as well a bin made fast—and another he give a fender to, and t’other one, what was the most worritsome o’ the lot, ’e took and made fast the jib sheets raound the bitts and tould he to pull on that. And he did. Lor’, that did make me laugh suthen.

‘Then agin, some o’ they young ’uns hears things what they den’t ought to. I remember young Abe Putwain, who used to sail along of a wonnerful larned ould gent what was always a lookin’ at things he got out o’ the water with one o’ they microscopes—a master great thing that were, accord’ to Abe. Well, this ould party and his friends was most allus argyin’ abaout suthen, and a course Abe could hear they through the fo’c’sle door. Abe was the most reg’lar chapel man I ever knaowed, and used allus to hould the plate by the door every Sunday till he took up along this larned gent what I’m a talkin’ abaout. Just abaout Christmas my mate left to take a skipper’s job, so bein’ at home I says to Abe, who I ain’t seen for some bit, “Will you come, mate, along o’ me, as yaour bo’t’s laid up?” So he come as mate, and one day, when we was sailing daown past the Naze and had just opened up Harwich Church, I says, “Well, mate, there’s the ould church!” I says, meanin’ the landmark. “Oh,” ’e says, scornful like. “You don’t ’ould with them idle superstitions, do yer?” he says. Well, that warn’t no use argyin’ with he, for he ain’t never bin to chapel since, and that’s what come o’ yachtin’, I reckon.’