The water was alive with craft of all sorts farther out in the Sound; and, if the old sail-boat did break down, there were vessels enough near to save him. After he had run a couple of miles more, he could see the town at the head of the bay. He could just discern a light-house at the point where the bay began to be very narrow; and he headed for this, as all the other craft were doing. But the wind was dead ahead, and he had to beat all the way; but it was not more than three miles from him. “What town is that?” asked Wade of a man in a boat loaded with oysters, which he was rowing towards the town, as the “Turtle” passed near him. “That’s the city of Bridgeport,” replied the oyster man. “Don’t you know where you are?” “No, sir, I don’t: I never was here before,” answered Wade, with candor and simplicity. “I want to go to some place where I can get some crackers and things to eat.” “Where did you come from?” “From Midhampton, up the river.” “Where are you bound?” “To New York.” “If you are bound up to town, and will take my boat in tow, I will pilot you up. It’s a crooked channel up to the city, and you will have a head wind part of the way,” added the oysterman. Wade agreed to this arrangement, and ran the “Turtle” alongside the oyster-boat. The man passed his painter to the stern of the sail-boat, and then took his place at the helm. “Whose boat is this?” asked the new skipper, as he looked the “Mud-turtle” over with a critical eye. “She belongs to me,” replied Wade. “You are rather young to own a boat,” added the oysterman. “If she don’t belong to me, I don’t know who owns her.” “Where did you get her?” Wade had no secrets, and he related the history of the boat. The man wanted to know something more about the young boatman’s history, and he kept looking the boat over all the time as he asked question after question. Wade told his story without any reserve, except that he did not mention the fire. “I don’t see as that man has any claims upon you,” said the pilot. “If he did not use you well, I don’t blame you for leaving him.” “Obed Swikes said I belonged in the poorhouse; and he and his wife kept saying they should send me there,” added Wade. “What are you going to do in New York?” asked Loud; for that was his name. “I expect to find work when I get there.” “What are you going to do with this boat?” “I don’t know: I hadn’t thought of that,” replied Wade blankly. And he did not think the boat was of much consequence any way. “I think this boat will do me more good than she will you,” said Loud, feeling his way to the subject that had been uppermost in his mind from the beginning. “It don’t seem to me that I should want to row that load of oysters as far as you have to go,” replied Wade, though he did not yet see what the oysterman was driving at.