It was in the autumn that I gained undisputed possession of the office of “Poor Jack”; and that winter I had an adventure which nearly occasioned my making a vacancy for somebody else, and which, the reader will agree with me, was anything but pleasant.

It was in the month of January—­the river was filled with floating ice, for it had frozen hard for several days; and, of course, there were but few people who trusted themselves in wherries—­so that I had little employment, and less profit.  One morning, as I was standing on the landing-steps, the breath coming out of my mouth like the steam of a tea-kettle—­rubbing my nose, which was red from the sharpness of the frost—­and looking at the sun, which was just mounting above a bank of clouds, a waterman called to me, and asked me whether I would go down the river with him, as he was engaged to take a mate down to join his ship, which was several miles below Greenwich; and, if so, he would give me sixpence and a breakfast.  I had earned little for many days, and, hating to be obliged to my mother, I consented.

In an hour we started:  there was no wind—­the water was smooth, and the sun’s rays glittered on the floating patches of ice, which grated against the sides of the wherry as we cut through them with our sharp prow.  Although we had the tide with us, it was three hours before we gained the ship.  The mate paid the fare, and gave us something to drink; and we passed an hour or more warming ourselves at the caboose and talking with the seamen.  At last a breeze sprung up, and the captain ordered the men to get the ship under way.  We shoved off, the tide having flowed some time, expecting to be back to Greenwich before dark.

But it clouded over, and a heavy snowstorm came on, so that we could not see in what direction we were pulling; the wind blew very fresh, and it was piercing cold; however, we pulled as hard as we could, not only to get back again, but to keep ourselves from freezing.  Unfortunately, we had lost too much time on board of the vessel; and, what with that, and the delay arising from the snowstorm preventing us pulling straight back, the ebb-tide made again before we had gained more than two-thirds of our way.  We were now nearly worn out with the severe cold and fatigue, but we pulled hard, keeping as close inshore as we could.  It was necessary, at the end of one reach, to cross over to the other side of the river; and, in so doing, we were driven by the tide against a large buoy, when the wherry filled and upset in an instant.  We both contrived to cling on to her, as she was turned bottom up; and away we were swept down among the drifting ice, the snowstorm still continuing to beat down on our heads.  I was nearly frozen before I could climb on the bottom of the wherry; which I at last contrived to do, but the waterman could only hold on.  There we both were, shivering and shaking; the wind piercing through our wet clothes—­the snow beating down on us, and our feet freezing among