“Does Rose Budd think herself consumptive, Capt.  Spike?” asked Mulford, with interest.

“Not she—­you know it will never do to alarm a pulmonary, so Mrs. Budd has held her tongue carefully on the subject before the young woman.  Rose fancies that her aunt is out of sorts, and that the v’y’ge is tried on her account—­but the aunt, the cunning thing, knows all about it.”

Mulford almost nauseated the expression of his commander’s countenance while Spike uttered the last words.  At no time was that countenance very inviting, the features being coarse and vulgar, while the color of the entire face was of an ambiguous red, in which liquor and the seasons would seem to be blended in very equal quantities.  Such a countenance, lighted up by a gleam of successful management, not to say with hopes and wishes that it will hardly do to dwell on, could not but be revolting to a youth of Harry Mulford’s generous feelings, and most of all to one who entertained the sentiments which he was quite conscious of entertaining for Rose Budd.  The young man made no reply, but turned his face toward the water, in order to conceal the expression of disgust that he was sensible must be strongly depicted on it.

The river, as the well-known arm of the sea in which the Swash was lying is erroneously termed, was just at that moment unusually clear of craft, and not a sail, larger than that of a boat, was to be seen between the end of Blackwell’s Island and Corlaer’s Hook, a distance of about a league.  This stagnation in the movement of the port, at that particular point, was owing to the state of wind and tide.  Of the first, there was little more than a southerly air, while the last was about two-thirds ebb.  Nearly everything that was expected on that tide, coast-wise, and by the way of the Sound, had already arrived, and nothing could go eastward, with that light breeze and under canvas, until the flood made.  Of course it was different with the steamers, who were paddling about like so many ducks, steering in all directions, though mostly crossing and re-crossing at the ferries.  Just as Mulford turned away from his commander, however, a large vessel of that class shoved her bows into the view, doubling the Hook, and going eastward.  The first glance at this vessel sufficed to drive even Rose Budd momentarily out of the minds of both master and mate, and to give a new current to their thoughts.  Spike had been on the point of walking up the wharf, but he now so far changed his purpose as actually to jump on board of the brig and spring up alongside of his mate, on the taffrail, in order to get a better look at the steamer.  Mulford, who loathed so much in his commander, was actually glad of this, Spike’s rare merit as a seaman forming a sort of attraction that held him, as it might be against his own will, bound to his service.

“What will they do next, Harry?” exclaimed the master, his manner and voice actually humanized, in air and sound at least, by this unexpected view of something new in his calling—­“What will they do next?”