“I see no wheels, sir, nor any movement in the water astern, as if she were a propeller,” returned the young man.

“She’s an out-of-the-way sort of a hussy!  She’s a man-of-war, too—­one of Uncle Sam’s new efforts.”

“That can hardly be, sir.  Uncle Sam has but three steamers, of any size or force, now the Missouri is burned; and yonder is one of them, lying at the Navy Yard, while another is, or was lately, laid up at Boston.  The third is in the Gulf.  This must be an entirely new vessel, if she belong to Uncle Sam.”

“New!  She’s as new as a Governor, and they tell me they’ve got so now that they choose five or six of them, up at Albany, every fall.  That craft is sea-going, Mr. Mulford, as any one can tell at a glance.  She’s none of your passenger-hoys.”

“That’s plain enough, sir—­and she’s armed.  Perhaps she’s English, and they’ve brought her here into this open spot to try some new machinery.  Ay, ay! she’s about to set her ensign to the navy men at the yard, and we shall see to whom she belongs.”

A long, low, expressive whistle from Spike succeeded this remark, the colours of the steamer going up to the end of a gaff on the sternmost of her schooner-rigged masts, just as Mulford ceased speaking.  There was just air enough, aided by the steamer’s motion, to open the bunting, and let the spectators see the design.  There were the stars and stripes, as usual, but the last ran perpendicularly, instead of in a horizontal direction.

“Revenue, by George!” exclaimed the master, as soon as his breath was exhausted in the whistle.  “Who would have believed they could screw themselves up to doing such a thing in that bloody service?”

“I now remember to have heard that Uncle Sam was building some large steamers for the revenue service, and, if I mistake not, with some new invention to get along with, that is neither wheel nor propeller.  This must be one of these new craft, brought out here, into open water, just to try her, sir.”

“You’re right, sir, you’re right.  As to the natur’ of the beast, you see her buntin’, and no honest man can want more.  If there’s anything I do hate, it is that flag, with its unnat’ral stripes, up and down, instead of running in the true old way.  I have heard a lawyer say, that the revenue flag of this country is onconstitutional, and that a vessel carrying it on the high seas might be sent in for piracy.”

Although Harry Mulford was neither Puffendorf, nor Grotius, he had too much common sense, and too little prejudice in favour of even his own vocation, to swallow such a theory, had fifty Cherry Street lawyers sworn to its justice.  A smile crossed his fine, firm-looking mouth, and something very like a reflection of that smile, if smiles can be reflected in one’s own countenance, gleamed in his fine, large, dark eye.

“It would be somewhat singular, Capt, Spike,” he said, “if a vessel belonging to any nation should be seized as a pirate.  The fact that she is national in character would clear her.”