This call was uttered from a wharf of the renowned city of Manhattan, to one who was in the trunk-cabin of a clipper-looking craft, of the name mentioned, and on the deck of which not a soul was visible. Nor was the wharf, though one of those wooden piers that line the arm of the sea that is called the East River, such a spot as ordinarily presents itself to the mind of the reader, or listener, when an allusion is made to a wharf of that town which it is the fashion of the times to call the _Commercial_ Emporium of America—as if there might very well be an _emporium_ of any other character. The wharf in question had not a single vessel of any sort lying at, or indeed very near it, with the exception of the Molly Swash. As it actually stood on the eastern side of the town, it is scarcely necessary to say that such a wharf could only be found high up, and at a considerable distance from the usual haunts of commerce. The brig lay more than a mile above the Hook (Corlaer’s, of course, is meant—not Sandy Hook) and quite near to the old Alms-House—far above the ship-yards, in fact. It was a solitary place for a vessel, in the midst of a crowd. The grum, top-chain voice of Captain Spike had nothing there to mingle with, or interrupt its harsh tones, and it instantly brought on deck Harry Mulford, the mate in question, apparently eager to receive his orders. “Did you hail, Captain Spike?” called out the mate, a tight, well-grown, straight-built, handsome sailor-lad of two or three-and-twenty—one full of health, strength and manliness. “Hail! If you call straining a man’s throat until he’s hoarse, hailing, I believe I did. I flatter myself there is not a man north of Hatteras that can make himself heard further in a gale of wind than a certain gentleman who is to be found within a foot of the spot where I stand. Yet, sir, I’ve been hailing the Swash these five minutes, and thankful am I to find some one at last who is on board to answer me.” “What are your orders, Capt. Spike?” “To see all clear for a start as soon as the flood makes. I shall go through the Gate on the next young flood, and I hope you’ll have all the hands aboard in time. I see two or three of them up at that Dutch beer-house, this moment, and can tell ’em, in plain language, if they come here with their beer aboard _them_, they’ll have to go ashore again.” “You have an uncommonly sober crew, Capt. Spike,” answered the young man, with great calmness. “During the whole time I have been with them, I have not seen a man among them the least in the wind.” “Well, I hope it will turn out that I’ve an uncommonly sober mate in the bargain. Drunkenness I abominate, Mr. Mulford, and I can tell you, short metre, that I will not stand it.” “May I inquire if you ever saw me, the least in the world, under the influence of liquor, Capt. Spike?” _demanded_ the mate, rather than asked, with a very fixed meaning in his manner.