“They seem in a hurry,” answered Harry,
as he adjusted the glass to his eye, “and will
go through the Gate in less time than it will take
to mention the circumstance.”
“What do you make of them, sir?”
“The little man who called himself Jack Tier
is in the stern-sheets of the boat, for one,”
answered Mulford.
“And the other, Harry—what do you
make of the other?”
“It seems to be the chap who hailed to know
if we had a pilot. He means to board us at Riker’s
Island, and make us pay pilotage, whether we want
his services or not.”
“Blast him and his pilotage too! Give me
the glass”—taking another long look
at the boat, which by this time was glancing, rather
than pulling, nearly at right angles across his bows.
“I want no such pilot aboard here, Mr. Mulford.
Take another look at him—here, you can
see him, away on our weather bow, already.”
Mulford did take another look at him, and this time
his examination was longer and more scrutinizing than
before.
“It is not easy to cover him with the glass,”
observed the young man—“the boat
seems fairly to fly.”
“We’re forereaching too near the Hog’s
Back, Capt. Spike,” roared the boatswain,
from forward.
“Ready about—hard a lee,” shouted
Spike. “Let all fly, for’ard—help
her round, boys, all you can, and wait for no orders!
Bestir yourselves—bestir yourselves.”
It was time the crew should be in earnest. While
Spike’s attention had been thus diverted by
the boat, the brig had got into the strongest of the
current, which, by setting her fast to windward, had
trebled the power of the air, and this was shooting
her over toward one of the greatest dangers of the
passage on a flood tide. As everybody bestirred
themselves, however, she was got round and filled
on the opposite tack, just in time to clear the rocks.
Spike breathed again, but his head was still full
of the boat. The danger he had just escaped as
Scylla met him as Charybdis. The boatswain again
roared to go about. The order was given as the
vessel began to pitch in a heavy swell. At the
next instant she rolled until the water came on deck,
whirled with her stern down the tide, and her bows
rose as if she were about to leap out of water.
The Swash had hit the Pot Rock.
“Watch. If we know him to be a thief, shall
we not lay hands on him?
Dogb. Truly, by your office, you may; but I think
they that touch pitch will be defiled; the most peaceable
way for you, if you do take a thief, is, to let him
show himself what he is, and steal out of your company.”
Much Ado About Nothing.
We left the brigantine of Capt. Spike in a very
critical situation, and the master himself in great
confusion of mind.
