Mulford took this occasion to introduce the subject of Jack Tier’s intimacy and favour with Rose.  He even professed to feel some jealousy on account of it, little as there might be to alarm most men in the rivalry of such a competitor.  Rose laughed, as girls will laugh when there is question of their power over the other sex, and she fairly shook her rich tresses as she declared her determination to continue to smile on Jack to the close of the voyage.  Then, as if she had said more than she intended, she added with woman’s generosity and tenderness,—­“After all, Harry, you know how much I promised to you even before we sailed, and how much more since, and have no just cause to dread even Jack.  There is another reason, however, that ought to set your mind entirely at case on his account.  Jack is married, and has a partner living at this very moment, as he does not scruple to avow himself.”

A hissing noise, a bright light, and a slight explosion, interrupted the half-laughing girl, and Mulford, turning on his heel, quick as thought, saw that a rocket had shot into the air, from a point close under the bows of the brig.  He was still in the act of moving toward the forecastle, when, at the distance of several leagues, he saw the explosion of another rocket high in the air.  He knew enough of the practices of vessels of war, to feel certain that these were a signal and its answer from some one in the service of government.  Not at all sorry to have the career of the Swash arrested, before she could pass into hostile hands, or before evil could befall Rose, Mulford reached the forecastle just in time to answer the inquiry that was immediately put to him, in the way of a hail.  A gig, pulling four oars only, with two officers in its stern-sheets, was fairly under the vessel’s bows, and the mate could almost distinguish the countenance of the officer who questioned him, the instant he showed his head and shoulders above the bulwarks.

“What vessels are these?” demanded the stranger, speaking in the authoritative manner of one who acted for the state, but not speaking much above the usual conversational tone.

“American and Spanish,” was the answer.  “This brig is American—­the schooner alongside is a Spaniard, that turned turtle in a tornado, about six-and-thirty hours since, and on which we have been hard at work trying to raise her, since the gale which succeeded the tornado has blown its pipe out.”

“Ay, ay, that’s the story, is it?  I did not know what to make of you, lying cheek by jowl, in this fashion.  Was anybody lost on board the schooner?”

“All hands, including every soul aft and forward, the supercargo excepted, who happened to be aboard here.  We buried seventeen bodies this afternoon on the smallest of the Keys that you see near at hand, and two this morning alongside of the light.  But what boat is that, and where are you from, and whom are you signalling?”

“The boat is a gig,” answered the stranger, deliberately, “and she belongs to a cruiser of Uncle Sam’s, that is off the reef, a short bit to the eastward, and we signalled our captain.  But I’ll come on board you, sir, if you please.”