I was nearly fifteen and my brother Tom was a little over sixteen when father died. There were no more of us, for our mother had died when I was so little that I could scarcely remember her. The only relation we had in the world was an uncle whom we had never seen and who lived in America, in the colony of the Carolinas. Father was a British channel pilot, and Tom and I were born and had lived except for one week, all our lives, in Bristol. This I have been told is the finest city in England, though, of course, everybody knows that it is not quite so big as London. Father owned a share in a pilot boat, and he often took us out with him when he was cruising for a homeward-bound ship. We used…
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