a negro, who pulled its sculls, and that this was a very different
boat from that which had glanced through Hell Gate, like an arrow
darting from its bow.

"Luff, and shake your topsail," called out Spike. "Get a rope there
to throw to this skiff."

The orders were obeyed, and Jack Tier, with his clothes-bag, was
soon on the deck of the Swash. As for the skiff and the negro, they
were cast adrift the instant the latter had received his quarter.
The meeting between Spike and his quondam steward's mate was a
little remarkable. Each stood looking intently at the other, as if
to note the changes which time had made. We cannot say that Spike's
hard, red, selfish countenance betrayed any great feeling, though
such was not the case with Jack Tier's. The last, a lymphatic, puffy
sort of a person at the best, seemed really a little touched, and he
either actually brushed a tear from his eye, or he affected so to
do.

"So, you are my old shipmate, Jack Tier, are ye?" exclaimed Spike,
in a half-patronizing, half-hesitating way--"and you want to try the
old craft ag'in. Give us a leaf of your log, and let me know where
you have been this many a day, and what you have been about? Keep
the brig off, Mr. Mulford. We are in no particular hurry to reach
Throg's, you'll remember, sir."

Tier gave an account of his proceedings, which could have no
interest with the reader. His narrative was anything but very clear,
and it was delivered in a cracked, octave sort of a voice, such as
little dapper people not unfrequently enjoy--tones between those of