After that, and a good warming-up and drying out of wet clothes, they went on deck and turned to as if it was canoeing on the Charles River they were. They coaxed the _Celestine_ along, always with an eye to her weak side. And the wind came fair, and the first thing they knew--no more than a couple of days more of careful night and day work it was--they found themselves abreast of Boston lightship. And here a tug bore down and hailed them. “You’re lookin’ in bad shape. Will I heave a line aboard?” “Will you? I don’t know. How much to the wharf?” “Oh, about five hundred dollars, I guess.” “You guess, do you? Well, I’ll make a guess you won’t.” “Well, what d’y’ say to two fifty?” “No, nor one fifty--nor a single fifty, nor the half of fifty. We’ve beat two hundred and odd mile this way, and I cal’late we can make ten mile more to the dock.” “Come two hundred miles in that rig?” [Illustration: A tug bore down and hailed them.] “Yes, sir--from Georges--and could come it again.” “From Georges--in the weather we’ve had? Angel Gabriel! I’ll take you up for nothing.” “No, no, you won’t. We’ll give you what’s due you--ten dollars.” “All right--ten dollars.” And so the _Celestine_ came back to T Dock. And an appreciative aggregation of connoisseurs in seamanship were there to greet her. But the crew of the _Celestine_: It did not take them long to hustle ashore after she was tied up--and they all had their bags with them. No more of her for them, thank you. And Coleman? After a look over to Eastern Packet Pier to see that his own _Maggie_ was still there, Coleman hurried up the dock and headed for the bar of the saloon that is nearest the south side of T Dock, there to consummate the second of the rites without which he could conceive no trip to be lucky. The bartender set down the glass of water and the glass empty and the bottle with the horse and rider on the outside. Coleman raised the bottle. But looking about him before he drank and observing the wistful crowd, he set his filled glass down again and drew his old wallet from his pocket, and from there dug out a bill. It was a five-dollar bill--they all saw it, with the V in plain sight. That, Coleman laid down on the bar, and motioning back over his shoulder, said heartily, “Let ye all come up--and have a drink on the _Maggie Joyce_--the _Maggie_ for me from this out.” “And how about that new one, Captain?” said one when the rush was over and a dozen throats had been properly sluiced. “That one, is it? That one! The wicked-- I won’t say it, but if ever I set foot on her deck again may-- That one--why, ’tis bad as pickin’ up a painted drab on the street and your own decent wife to home. Let ye drink again--d’y’ hear me?” And not a man of them but heard. The Truth of the Oliver Cromwell