“Oh that’s impossible—­the sea is no republic; there are but two republics, America and Texas.  I’ve heard that the sea is a highway, it is true—­the `highway of nations,’ I believe it is called, and that must mean something particular.  But my poor Mr. Budd always told me that Neptune was king of the seas, and he was always so accurate, you might depend on everything he said.  Why, he called his last Newfoundland dog Neptune; and do you think, Rosy, that your dear uncle would call his dog after an imaginary being?—­and he a man to beat the wind, and attack ship, and take the sun, moon and stars aboard!  No, no, child; fanciful folk may see imaginary beings, but solid folk see solid beings.”

Even Spike was dumfounded at this, and there is no knowing what he might have said, had not an old sea-dog, who had just come out of the fore-topmast cross-trees, come aft, and, hitching up his trowsers with one hand while he touched his hat with the other, said with immoveable gravity,

“The revenue-steamer has brought up just under the fort, Capt.  Spike.”

“How do you know that, Bill?” demanded the captain, with a rapidity that showed how completely Mrs. Budd and all her absurdities were momentarily forgotten.

“I was up on the fore-topgallant yard, sir, a bit ago, just to look to the strap of the jewel-block, which wants some sarvice on it, and I see’d her over the land, blowin’ off steam and takin’ in her kites.  Afore I got out of the cross-trees, she was head to wind under bare-poles, and if she had n’t anchored, she was about to do so.  I’m sartin ’t was she, sir, and that she was about to bring up.”

Spike gave a long, low whistle, after his fashion, and he walked away from the females, with the air of a man who wanted room to think in.  Half a minute later, he called out—­“Stand by to shorten sail, boys.  Man fore-clew-garnets, flying jib down haul, topgallant sheets, and gaff-topsail gear.  In with ’em all, my lads—­in with everything, with a will.”

An order to deal with the canvas in any way, on board ship, immediately commands the whole attention of all whose duty it is to attend to such matters, and there was an end of all discourse while the Swash was shortening sail.  Everybody understood, too, that it was to gain time, and prevent the brig from reaching Throg’s Neck sooner than was desirable.

“Keep the brig off,” called out Spike, “and let her ware—­we’re too busy to tack just now.”

The man at the wheel knew very well what was wanted, and he put his helm up, instead of putting it down, as he might have done without this injunction.  As this change brought the brig before the wind, and Spike was in no hurry to luff up on the other tack, the Swash soon ran over a mile of the distance she had already made, putting her back that much on her way to the Neck.  It is out of our power to say what the people of the different craft in sight thought of all this, but an opportunity soon offered of putting them on a wrong scent.  A large coasting schooner, carrying everything that would draw on a wind, came sweeping under the stern of the Swash, and hailed.