"Does Rose Budd think herself consumptive, Capt. Spike?" asked
Mulford, with interest.

"Not she--you know it will never do to alarm a pulmonary, so Mrs.
Budd has held her tongue carefully on the subject before the young
woman. Rose fancies that her aunt is out of sorts, and that the
v'y'ge is tried on her account--but the aunt, the cunning thing,
knows all about it."

Mulford almost nauseated the expression of his commander's
countenance while Spike uttered the last words. At no time was that
countenance very inviting, the features being coarse and vulgar,
while the color of the entire face was of an ambiguous red, in which
liquor and the seasons would seem to be blended in very equal
quantities. Such a countenance, lighted up by a gleam of successful
management, not to say with hopes and wishes that it will hardly do
to dwell on, could not but be revolting to a youth of Harry
Mulford's generous feelings, and most of all to one who entertained
the sentiments which he was quite conscious of entertaining for Rose
Budd. The young man made no reply, but turned his face toward the
water, in order to conceal the expression of disgust that he was
sensible must be strongly depicted on it.

The river, as the well-known arm of the sea in which the Swash was
lying is erroneously termed, was just at that moment unusually clear
of craft, and not a sail, larger than that of a boat, was to be seen
between the end of Blackwell's Island and Corlaer's Hook, a distance
of about a league. This stagnation in the movement of the port, at
that particular point, was owing to the state of wind and tide. Of
the first, there was little more than a southerly air, while the