“Well,” exclaimed Mrs. Budd, who found the freshness of the sea air invigorating, as well as their speed exciting, “this is what I call maritime, Rosy, dear.  This is what is meant by the Maritime States, about which we read so much, and which are commonly thought to be so important.  We are now in a Maritime State, and I feel perfectly happy after all our dangers and adventures!”

“Yes, aunty, and I am delighted that you are happy,” answered Rose, with frank affection.  “We are now rid of that infamous Spike, and may hope never to see his face more.”

“Stephen Spike has his good p’ints as well as another,” said Jack Tier, abruptly.

“I know that he is an old shipmate of yours, Tier, and that you cannot forget how he once stood connected with you, and am sorry I have said so much against him,” answered Rose, expressing her concern even more by her looks and tones, than by her words.

Jack was mollified by this, and he let his feeling be seen, though he said no more than to mutter, “He’s a willian!” words that had frequently issued from his lips within the last day or two.

“Stephen Spike is a capital seaman, and that is something in any man,” observed the relict of Captain Budd.  “He learned his trade from one who was every way qualified to teach him, and it’s no wonder he should be expert.  Do you expect, Mr. Mulford, to beat the wind the whole distance to Key West?”

It was not possible for any one to look more grave than the mate did habitually, while the widow was floundering through her sea-terms.  Rose had taught him that respect for her aunt was to be one of the conditions of her own regard, though Rose had never opened her lips to him on the subject.

“Yes, ma’am,” answered the mate, respectfully, “we are in the trades, and shall have to turn to windward, every inch of the way to Key West.”

“Of what lock is this place the key, Rosy?” asked the aunt, innocently enough.  “I know that forts and towns are sometimes called keys, but they always have locks of some sort or other.  Now, Gibraltar is the key of the Mediterranean, as your uncle has told me fifty times; and I have been there, and can understand why it should be,—­but I do not know of what lock this West is the key.”

“It is not that sort of key which is meant, aunty, at all—­but quite a different thing.  The key meant is an island.”

“And why should any one be so silly as to call an island a key?”

“The place where vessels unload is sometimes called a key,” answered Mulford;—­“the French calling it a quai, and the Dutch kaye.  I suppose our English word is derived from these.  Now, a low, sandy island, looking somewhat like keys, or wharves, seamen have given them this name.  Key West is merely a low island.”

“Then there is no lock to it, or anything to be unfastened,” said the widow, in her most simple manner.

“It may turn out to be the key to the Gulf of Mexico, one of these days, ma’am.  Uncle Sam is surveying the reef, and intends to do something here, I believe.  When Uncle Sam is really in earnest, he is capable of performing great things.”