A number of British cruisers were hovering along the coast, and we expected to have some trouble before getting fairly to sea. Nor were we disappointed. We were hardly four hours out before a sail was descried on our starboard quarter and another on our larboard bow. We hoisted the British jack and drove right between them, hoping to escape molestation, as we had little doubt that the sails in view belonged to British men-o'-war. We were correct in this. And, although we escaped the bigger customer to the northward, the other stranger came so close that we were right under her guns. She was a heavily-armed brig, and could have sunk us at a single broadside, but contented herself with questioning us. "What ship is that?" was bellowed from her quarter deck. "The brigantine Spitfire," sung our little captain through his trumpet. "What luck have you had?" "Have destroyed sixteen smacks off Gloucester and are now in the wake of an Indiaman that got out last night." "All right." And the unsuspicious brig drove by us with all sails set. "We pulled the wool over _her_ eyes, at any rate," mused our little captain, with twinkling eyes, as we continued on our course. We next fell in with an American vessel, homeward bound, and gave her directions how to escape the blockaders. "Sail ho!" sung out the lookout, an hour later. We were immediately in a stew of excitement, thinking that this, at least, must be a prize. But this also proved to be an American, and we were compelled to chew the cud of disappointment. "Why in blazes ain't you a Britisher?" muttered Tony Trybrace, yawning indignantly, as the true character of the stranger was discovered. We kept our course, without incident, until the sun went down behind us, and the stars, one by one, began to stud the darkening vault. Behind us flowed our wake of fire; Tony Trybrace played several tunes on his scrapy violin; and then, as it bade fair to be a peaceful night, we gathered round old Bluefish for a promised yarn. CHAPTER III. THE YARN OF THE YELLOW MAST--CUTTING HAMMOCKS. "Yer see," said old Bluefish, lighting his pipe, "it all happened on board the Big Thunder. She was a splendid East Indiaman, and I was captain onto her." "Captain? YOU captain?" exclaimed Snollygoster. "Come now, Massa Bluefish, dat won't do, you know. Dat am de--" "Hold yer tongue, yer red-mouthed savage, and let me spin my yarn without a break in the thread! Yer see," continued Bluefish, "it all happened on board the Big Thunder. I went to bed feelin' fu'st-rate. It was kinder calm, with a prospect of being more so 'an ever. When I wakes up in the mornin' I was somewhat taken aback at seein' that a new post had sprung up in the cabin durin' the night. It ran straight up through the center of the cabin and was as yaller as a chaw of cavendish, when it's pretty well chawed.