uncle.  It was this money, taken in connection with the credulous imbecility of the aunt, that had awakened the cupidity, and excited the hopes of Spike.  After a life of lawless adventure, one that had been chequered by every shade of luck, he found himself growing old, with his brig growing old with him, and little left beside his vessel and the sort of half cargo that was in her hold.  Want of means, indeed, was the reason that the flour-barrels were not more numerous.

Rose heard Mulford’s explanation favourably, as indeed she heard most of that which came from him, but did not renew the discourse, Spike’s conference with the boatswain just then terminating.  The captain now came aft, and began to speak of the performances of his vessel in a way to show that he took great pride in them.

“We are travelling at the rate of ten knots, Madam Budd,” he said exultingly, “and that will take us clear of the land, before night shuts in ag’in.  Montauk is a good place for an offing; I ask for no better.”

“Shall we then have two offings, this voyage, Captain Spike?” asked Rose, a little sarcastically.  “If we are in the offing now, and are to be in the offing when we reach Montauk, there must be two such places.”

“Rosy, dear, you amaze me!” put in the aunt.  “There is no offing until the pilot is discharged, and when he’s discharged there is nothing but offing.  It’s all offing.  On the Sound, is the first great change that befalls a vessel as she goes to sea; then comes the offing; next the pilot is discharged—­then—­then—­what comes next, Captain Spike?”

“Then the vessel takes her departure—­an old navigator like yourself, Madam Budd, ought not to forget the departure.”

“Quite true, sir.  The departure is a very important portion of a seaman’s life.  Often and often have I heard my poor dear Mr. Budd talk about his departures.  His departures, and his offings and his—­”

“Land-falls,” added Spike, perceiving that the shipmaster’s relict was a little at fault.

“Thank you, sir; the hint is quite welcome.  His landfalls, also, were often in his mouth.”

“What is a land-fall, aunty?” inquired Rose—­“It appears a strange term to be used by one who lives on the water.”

“Oh! there is no end to the curiosities of sailors!  A `land-fall,’ my dear, means a shipwreck, of course.  To fall on the land, and a very unpleasant fall it is, when a vessel should keep on the water.  I’ve heard of dreadful land-falls in my day, in which hundreds of souls have been swept into eternity, in an instant.”

“Yes; yes, Madam Budd—­there are such accidents truly, and serious things be they to encounter,” answered Spike, hemming a little to clear his throat, as was much his practice whenever the widow ran into any unusually extravagant blunder; “yes, serious things to encounter.  But the land-fall that I mean is a different sort of thing; being, as you well know, what we say when we come in sight of land, a’ter a v’y’ge; or, meaning the land we may happen first to see.  The departure is the beginning of our calculation when we lose sight of the last cape or headland, and the land-fall closes it, by letting us know where we are, at the other end of our journey, as you probably remember.”