It was a little after midwinter of that year that Sir.  Chaloner Ogle made him commodore of a sixteen-ship squadron in the waters of the Leeward Islands where there was decidedly good hunting in the way of prize ships.  Off Martinique were many French and Spanish boats simply waiting, it would almost seem, to be eaten alive by the enemy’s cruisers; and Captain Peter who had the sound treasure-hunting instinct of your born adventurer, proceeded to gobble them up!  In the four months that rolled jovially by between the middle of February and the middle of June, the Captain captured twenty-four of these prizes, one alone with a plate cargo valued at two hundred and fifty thousand pounds!  Ah, but those were the rare days for a stout-hearted seafaring man, with a fleet of strong boats and an expensive taste!

Captain Warren brought his prizes to New York and handed them over to his father-in-law’s firm,—­advertised in the old papers as “Messieurs Stephen de Lancey and Company,”—­who acted as his agents in practically all of what Janvier disrespectfully styles “his French and Spanish swag”!  Governor Clinton had exempted prizes from duty, so it was all clear profit.  With the proceeds of the excellent deals which De Lancey made for him, he then proceeded to cut the swathe for which he was by temperament and attributes so well fitted.

There never was an Irishman yet, nor a sailor either, who could not spend money in the grand manner.  Our Captain was no exception, be certain!  He figures superbly in the social accounts of the day; it is safe to assert that he set the pace after a fashion, and fair Mistress Susanna was a real leader of real Colonial dames!  He appears to have been a genuinely and deservedly popular fellow, our Peter Warren, throwing his prize money about with a handsome lavishness, and upholding the honour of the British navy as gallantly in American society as ever he had in hostile waters abroad.

And now for that dream of a country home!  Warren had lands on the Mohawk River and elsewhere, but his heart had always yearned for the tract of land in sylvan Greenwich.  In that quiet little hamlet on the green banks of the Hudson the birds sang and the leaves rustled, and the blue water rested tired eyes.  Peter at this time owned nearly three hundred acres of ground there and now that he had money in plenty, he lost no time in building a glorious dovecote for himself and Mistress Susanna—­a splendid house in full keeping with his usual large way of doing things.

Stroll around the block that is squared by the present Charles, Perry, Bleecker and Tenth streets some day, look at the brick and stone, the shops and boarding-houses,—­and try to dream yourself back into the eighteenth century, when, in that very square of land, stood the Captain’s lovely country seat.  In those days it was something enormous, palatial, and indeed was always known as the Mansion or Manse.  This is, of course, the