This nearly destroyed the hope of success.  The officers began to suspect that their lookout on Campanella had been deceived, and that what he had supposed to be a lugger was, in truth, a felucca, or perhaps a xebec—­a craft which might well be mistaken for a lugger, at the distance of a few leagues.  The error, however, was with those in the ship.  The officer sent upon the heights was a shrewd, practised master’s-mate, who knew everything about his profession that properly came within his line, and knew little else.  But for a habit of drinking, he would long since have been a lieutenant, being, in truth, an older sailor than Westchester; but, satisfied of his own infirmity, and coming from a class in life in which preferment was viewed as a Godsend rather than as a right, he had long settled down into the belief that he was to live and die in his present station, thereby losing most of the desire to rise.  The name of this man was Clinch.  In consequence of his long experience, within the circle of his duties, his opinion was greatly respected by his superiors, when he was sober; and as he had the precaution not to be otherwise when engaged on service, his weakness seldom brought him into any serious difficulties.  Cuffe, as a last hope, had sent him up on the heights of Campanella, with a perfect conviction that, if anything were really in sight, he would not fail to see it.  All this confidence, however, had now ended in disappointment; and, half-an-hour later, when it was announced to Cuffe that “the cutter, with Mr. Clinch, was coming down the bay toward them,” the former even heard the name of his drunken favorite with disgust.  As was usual with him, when out of humor, he went below as the boat drew near, leaving orders for her officer to be sent down to him, the instant the latter got on board.  Five minutes later, Clinch thrust his hard-looking, weatherbeaten, but handsome red countenance in at the cabin-door.

“Well, sir,” commenced the captain, on a tolerably high key, “a d—­d pretty wild-goose chase you’ve sent us all on, down here, into this bay!  The southerly wind is failing already, and in half an hour the ships will be frying the pitch off their decks, without a breath of air; when the wind does come, it will come out at west, and bring us all four or five leagues dead to leeward!”

Clinch’s experience had taught him the useful man-of-war lesson, to bow to the tempest, and not to attempt to brave it.  Whenever he was “rattled-down,” as he called it, he had the habit of throwing an expression of surprise, comically blended with contrition, into his countenance, that seemed to say, “What have I done now?”—­or “If I have done anything amiss, you see how sorry I an for it.”  He met his irritated commander, on the present occasion, with this expression, and it produced the usual effect of mollifying him a little.

“Well, sir—­explain this matter, if you please,” continued Cuffe, after a moment’s hesitation.