fresh water tears over it, for I'm thinking this'll not be your last
voyage, and as for me, there's nothing to hinder my hanging around this
little sand-heap a bit longer; and who knows but we may try it again
some day. Who knows? ah, who knows that John Sampson is not lying at
this moment at the bottom of the sea? Who is there that cares to know?"

"This, I know, is not your home, Mr. Sampson; but have you not one
friend? is there no spot in the wide world which is dear to you? is
there not one who will welcome you home?"

"All places are the same to me, and I can truly say, there is not a
person on the whole earth that would 'bout ship' to get a look at me. To
be sure, I was brought up somehow, till I was able to take myself up,
but by whom, or where, is farther back than the story goes; all I know
is, I found myself, at six years old, on the top of a London dust heap,
taking a survey of the great metropolis. Whether I was left there by the
refuse gatherers, to come under the head of starved dogs, or whether I
was accidentally dropped by my lawful owner, it don't make much
difference. Well, I shook the dust out of my eyes, and made for the
water, and I've lived on the water for the most part ever since. But
there's one comfort about it, I've never been troubled with poor
relations," added he, jocosely.

"Mr. Sampson, yours is a strange history, and what is stranger still,
that you have not, in all your yarns in the forecastle, spun us this
one. But have you never, in all your wanderings, met with those whom,
you can call your friends?"

"A rough old tar like me, I must say, would not be the most inviting
craft to interchange signals with, but, thank God, I have found one, in