“I’m mighty afraid of that Carysfort reef, since I struck upon it in 1845.  I was in a British schooner then, bound from Kingston, Jamaica, to New York.  We kept a bright lookout, all the way through the passage, and yet struck, one morning just about day-light; and, five minutes before, we had sounded without getting bottom.  When it cleared away, that we could see, there was two others like ourselves.  One was the ship John Parker, of Boston, and the other was a ’long-shoreman.  We had a valuable cargo on board, but the craft wasn’t hurt a bit; and if the skipper—­who was a little colonial man, not much acquainted with the judicial value of a wrecker’s services—­had a’ taken my advice, he wouldn’t got into the snarl he did at Key West, where they carried him, and charged him thirty-six hundred dollars for the job.  Yes, and a nice little commission to the British consul for counting the doubloons, which, by-the-by, Skipper, belonged to that great house of Howland & Aspinwalls.  They were right clever fellows, and it went into the general average account for the relief of the underwriters’ big chest,” continued the mate.

“We must have all hands ready at the call,” said the Captain.  “It looks dirty overhead, and I think we’re going to catch it from the north-east to-night.  If we do, our position is not as good as before.  I don’t feel afraid of her, if we only get clear of this infernal coast,” said the Skipper, as he rolled up his chart, and repaired on deck again.

During this time, Manuel, who, had given the crew some very acceptable hot cakes for supper, was sitting upon the windlass, earnestly engaged, with his broken English, recounting an adventure he had on the coast of Patagonia, a few years previous, while serving on board a whaleman, to a shipmate who sat at his left.  It was one of those incidents which frequently occur to the men attached to vessels which visit that coast for the purpose of providing a supply of wood and water, and which would require too much space to relate here.

“Did you run, Manuel?” said the listening shipmate.

“What else did me do?  If I no run, I’d not be here dis night, because I be make slave, or I be killed wid club.  Patagonian don’t care for flag—­nor not’in’ else—­I trust—­e my leg, an’ he get to de boat jus’ when cap-i-tan come to rescue.”

“Was you on board an Englishman then, Manuel?” inquired the shipmate.

“Yes, I’m always sail in English ship, because I can get protection from flag and consul, where I go—­any part of globe,” said he.

“I never liked this sailing among barbarous nations; they’ve no respect for any flag, and would just as lief imprison an Englishman or an American as they would a dog.  They’re a set of wild barbarians, and if they kill a fellow, there’s no responsibility for it.  It’s like a parcel of wolves chasing a lamb, and there’s no finding them after they’ve killed it.  But they give a fellow his rights in Old England and the States.