Against such assertions arguments were obviously useless, and Mulford, perceiving that Rose began to fidget, had sufficient tact to change the conversation altogether.

And still the Molly Swash kept in swift motion.  Montauk was by this time abeam, and the little brigantine began to rise and fall, on the long swells of the Atlantic, which now opened before her, in one vast sheet of green and rolling waters.  On her right lay the termination of Long Island; a low, rocky cape, with its light, and a few fields in tillage, for the uses of those who tended it.  It was the “land’s end” of New York, while the island that was heaving up out of the sea, at a distance of about twenty miles to the eastward, was the property of Rhode Island, being called Blok Island.  Between the two, the Swash shaped her course for the ocean.

Spike had betrayed uneasiness, as his brig came up with Montauk; but the coast seemed clear, with not even a distant sail in sight, and he came aft, rubbing his hands with delight, speaking cheerfully.

“All right, Mr. Mulford,” he cried—­“everything ship-shape and brister-fashion—­not even a smack fishing here-away, which is a little remarkable.  Ha!—­what are you staring at, over the quarter, there?”

“Look here, sir, directly in the wake of the setting sun, which we are now opening from the land—­is not that a sail?”

“Sail!  Impossible, sir.  What should a sail be doing in there, so near Montauk—­no man ever saw a sail there in his life.  It’s a spot in the sun, Madam Budd, that my mate has got a glimpse at, and, sailor-like, he mistakes it for a sail!  Ha—­ha—­ha—­yes, Harry, it’s a spot in the sun.”

“It is a spot on the sun, as you say, but it’s a spot made by a vessel—­and here is a boat pulling towards her, might and main; going from the light, as if carrying news.”

It was no longer possible for Spike’s hopes to deceive him.  There was a vessel, sure enough; though, when first seen, it was so directly in a line with the fiery orb of the setting sun, as to escape common observation.  As the brig went foaming on towards the ocean, however, the black speck was soon brought out of the range of the orb of day, and Spike’s glass was instantly levelled at it.

“Just as one might expect, Mr. Mulford,” cried the captain, lowering his glass, and looking aloft to see what could be done to help his craft along; “a bloody revenue cutter, as I’m a wicked sinner!  There she lies, sir, within musket shot of the shore, hid behind the point, as it might be in waiting for us, with her head to the southward, her helm hard down, topsail aback, and foresail brailed; as wicked looking a thing as Free Trade and Sailor’s Rights ever ran from.  My life on it, sir, she’s been put in that precise spot, in waiting for the Molly to arrive.  You see, as we stand on, it places her as handsomely to windward of us, as the heart of man could desire.”

“It is a revenue cutter, sir; now she’s out of the sun’s wake, that is plain enough.  And that is her boat, which has been sent to the light to keep a look-out for us.  Well, sir, she’s to windward; but we have everything set for our course, and as we are fairly abeam, she must be a great traveller to overhaul us.”