still in his place and ready to shine when he was wanted.
Master Perry had a furlong to go before he reached the dock. He crossed the stream, kept unfrozen by the warm influences of the Foundry. He ran through a little dell hedged on each side by dull green cedars. It was severely cold now, and our young friend condescended to prance and jump over the ice-skimmed puddles to keep his blood in motion.
The little rusty, pudgy steamboat lay at the down-stream side of the Foundry wharf. Her name was so long and her paddle-box so short, that the painter, beginning with ambitious large letters, had been compelled to abbreviate the last syllable. Her title read thus:—
I. AMBUSTer.
Certainly a formidable inscription for a steamboat!
When she hove in sight, Perry halted, resumed his stately demeanor, and embarked as if he were a Doge entering a Bucentaur to wed a Sea.
There was nobody on deck to witness the arrival and salute the magnifico.
Perry looked in at the Cap’n’s office. He beheld a three-legged stool, a hacked desk, an inky steel-pen, an inkless inkstand; but no Cap’n Ambuster.
Perry inspected the Cap’n’s state-room. There was a cracked looking-glass, into which he looked; a hair-brush suspended by the glass, which he used; a lair of blankets in a berth, which he had
