might be, dropping slowly up with the tide at the same time. Mulford
now passed forward to set the jibs, and to get the topsail on the
craft, leaving Spike on the taffrail, keenly eyeing the strangers,
who, by this time, had got down nearly to the end of the wharf, at
the berth so lately occupied by the Swash. That the captain was
uneasy was evident enough, that feeling being exhibited in his
countenance, blended with a malignant ferocity.

"Has that brig any pilot?" asked the larger and better-looking of
the two strangers.

"What's that to you, friend?" demanded Spike, in return. "Have you a
Hell-Gate branch?"

"I may have one, or I may not. It is not usual for so large a craft
to run the Gate without a pilot."

"Oh! my gentleman's below, brushing up his logarithms. We shall have
him on deck to take his departure before long, when I'll let him
know your kind inquiries after his health."

The man on the wharf seemed to be familiar with this sort of
sea-wit, and he made no answer, but continued that close scrutiny of
the brig, by turning his eyes in all directions, now looking below,
and now aloft, which had in truth occasioned Spike's principal cause
for uneasiness.

"Is not that Capt. Stephen Spike, of the brigantine Molly Swash?"
called out the little, dumpling-looking person, in a cracked,
dwarfish sort of a voice, that was admirably adapted to his