This call was uttered from a wharf of the renowned city of
Manhattan, to one who was in the trunk-cabin of a clipper-looking
craft, of the name mentioned, and on the deck of which not a soul
was visible. Nor was the wharf, though one of those wooden piers
that line the arm of the sea that is called the East River, such a
spot as ordinarily presents itself to the mind of the reader, or
listener, when an allusion is made to a wharf of that town which it
is the fashion of the times to call the Commercial Emporium of
America--as if there might very well be an emporium of any other
character. The wharf in question had not a single vessel of any sort
lying at, or indeed very near it, with the exception of the Molly
Swash. As it actually stood on the eastern side of the town, it is
scarcely necessary to say that such a wharf could only be found high
up, and at a considerable distance from the usual haunts of
commerce. The brig lay more than a mile above the Hook (Corlaer's,
of course, is meant--not Sandy Hook) and quite near to the old Alms
House--far above the ship-yards, in fact. It was a solitary place
for a vessel, in the midst of a crowd. The grum top-chain voice of
Captain Spike had nothing there to mingle with, or interrupt its
harsh tones, and it instantly brought on deck Harry Mulford, the
mate in question, apparently eager to receive his orders.

"Did you hail, Captain Spike?" called out the mate, a tight,
well-grown, straight-built, handsome sailor-lad of two or
three-and-twenty--one full of health, strength and manliness.

"Hail! If you call straining a man's throat until he's hoarse,
hailing, I believe I did. I flatter myself, there is not a man north
of Hatteras that can make himself heard further in gale of wind than
a certain gentleman who is to be found within a foot of the spot