Mulford shrugged his shoulders and remained silent, perceiving that his commander was not disposed to pursue the subject any further.  In the mean time, the brig had passed beyond the influence of the bluff, and was beginning to feel a stronger breeze, that was coming down the wide opening of Flushing Bay.  As the tide still continued strong in her favour, and her motion through the water was getting to be four or five knots, there was every prospect of her soon reaching Whitestone, the point where the tides meet, and where it would become necessary to anchor; unless, indeed, the wind, which was now getting to the southward and eastward, should come round more to the south.  All this Spike and his mate discussed together, while the people were clearing the decks, and making the preparations that are customary on board a vessel before she gets into rough water.

By this time it was ascertained that the brig had received no damage by her salute of the Pot Rock, and every trace of uneasiness on that account was removed.  But Spike kept harping on the boat, and “the pilot-looking chap who was in her.”  As they passed Riker’s Island, all hands expected a boat would put off with a pilot, or to demand pilotage; but none came, and the Swash now seemed released from all her present dangers, unless some might still be connected with the revenue steamer.  To retard her advance, however, the wind came out a smart working breeze from the southward and eastward, compelling her to make “long legs and short ones” on her way towards Whitestone.

“This is beating the wind, Rosy dear,” said Mrs. Budd, complacently, she and her niece having returned to the deck a few minutes after this change had taken place.  “Your respected uncle did a great deal of this in his time, and was very successful in it.  I have heard him say, that in one of his voyages between Liverpool and New York, he beat the wind by a whole fortnight, everybody talking of it in the insurance offices, as if it was a miracle.”

“Ay, ay, Madam Budd,” put in Spike, “I’ll answer for that.  They’re desperate talkers in and about them there insurance offices in Wall street.  Great gossips be they, and they think they know everything.  Now just because this brig is a little old or so, and was built for a privateer in the last war, they’d refuse to rate her as even B, No. 2, and my blessing on ’em.”

“Yes, B, No. 2, that’s just what your dear uncle used to call me, Rosy—­his charming B, No. 2, or Betsy, No. 2; particularly when he was in a loving mood.  Captain Spike, did you ever beat the wind in a long voyage?”

“I can’t say I ever did, Mrs. Budd,” answered Spike, looking grimly around, to ascertain if any one dared to smile at his passenger’s mistake; “especially for so long a pull as from New York to Liverpool.”

“Then your uncle used to boast of the Rose In Bloom’s wearing and attacking.  She would attack anything that came in her way, no matter who, and as for wearing, I think he once told me she would wear just what she had a mind to, like any human being.”