The pilots appeared one after another. They came out to the edge of the cotton wharf through the mist and rain, and waved a handkerchief as a signal that a boat should be sent ashore for them. One or two, failing to attract the immediate attention of the crew, resorted to the expedient of calling out: “Schooner, Ahoy!” in voices which partook of some of the stoutness of the sea. “Come ashore, will you?” they shouted, when a head appeared above deck. No sooner were they recognized than the yawl was launched and sent ashore. They came aboard and descended quickly out of the rain into the only room (or cabin) at the foot of the companionway. This was at once their sitting-room, dining-room, bedroom, and every other chamber for the voyage. Here they stowed their satchels and papers in lockers beneath their individual sleeping berths. Each one sought out a stout canvas clothes bag, which all pilots use in lieu of a trunk, and began to unpack his ship’s clothes. All took off their land apparel and dressed themselves in ancient seat-patched and knee-worn garments, which were far more comfortable than graceful, and every one produced the sailor’s essential, a pipe and tobacco. Dreary as was the day overhead, the atmosphere of the cabin changed with their arrival. Not only was it soon thick with the fumes of many pipes, but it was bright with genial temper. Not one of the company of seven pilots seemed moody. “Whose watch is it?” asked one. “Rierson’s, I think,” was the answer. “He ain’t here yet.” “Here he comes now.” At this a hale Norwegian, clean and hard as a pine knot, came down the companionway. “My turn to-day, eh? Are we all here?” “Ay!” cried one. “Then we might as well go, hey?” “Ay! Ay!” came the chorus. “Steward!” he called. “Tell the men to hoist sail!” “Ay! Ay! sir!” answered the steward. Then were rattlings and clatterings overhead. While the little company in the cabin were chatting, the work on deck was resulting in a gradual change, and when, after a half-hour, Rierson put his head out into the wind and rain above the companionway, the cotton docks were far in the rear, all but lost in the mist and drizzle. All sails were up and a stiff breeze was driving the little craft through the Narrows. McLaughlin, the boatman and master of the crew, under Rierson, was at the wheel. Already we were being rocked and tossed like a child in a cradle. “Who controls the vessel,” I asked of him, “while the pilots are on board?” “The pilots themselves.” “Not all of them?” “No, not all at one time. The pilot who has the watch has full control for his hours, then the next pilot after him, and so on. No pilot is interfered with during his service.” “And where do we head now?” “For Sandy Hook and the sea east of that. We are going to meet inbound European steamers.”