Mulford saw that argument was useless, and he confined his remarks, during the rest of the conversation, to showing Rose the manner in which the longitude of a place might be ascertained, with the aid of the chronometer, and by means of observations to get the true time of day, at the particular place itself. Rose was so quick witted, and already so well instructed, as easily to comprehend the principles; the details being matters of no great moment to one of her sex and habits. But Mrs. Budd remained antagonist to the last. She obstinately maintained that twelve o’clock was twelve o’clock; or, if there _was_ any difference, “London hours were notoriously later, than those of New York.” Against such assertions, arguments were obviously useless, and Mulford, perceiving that Rose began to fidget, had sufficient tact to change the conversation altogether. And still the Molly Swash kept in swift motion. Montauk was, by this time, abeam, and the little brigantine began to rise and fall, on the long swells of the Atlantic, which now opened before her, in one vast sheet of green and rolling waters. On her right, lay the termination of Long Island; a low, rocky cape, with its light, and a few fields in tillage, for the uses of those who tended it. It was the “land’s end” of New York, while the island that was heaving up out of the sea, at a distance of about twenty miles to the eastward, was the property of Rhode Island, being called Blok Island. Between the two, the Swash shaped her course for the ocean. Spike had betrayed uneasiness, as his brig came up with Montauk; but the coast seemed clear, with not even a distant sail in sight, and he came aft rubbing his hands with delight, speaking cheerfully. “All right, Mr. Mulford,” he cried—“every thing ship-shape and brister-fashion—not even a smack fishing here-away, which is a little remarkable. Ha!—what are you staring at, over the quarter, there?” “Look here, sir, directly in the wake of the setting sun, which we are now opening from the land—is not that a sail?” “Sail! Impossible, sir. What should a sail be doing in there, so near Montauk—no man ever saw a sail there, in his life. It’s a spot in the sun, Madam Budd, that my mate has got a glimpse at, and, sailor-like, he mistakes it for a sail! Ha—ha—ha—yes, Harry, it’s a spot in the sun.” “It is a spot _on_ the sun, as you say, but it’s a spot made by a vessel—and here is a boat pulling towards her, might and main; going from the light, as if carrying news.” It was no longer possible for Spike’s hopes to deceive him. There was a vessel sure enough, though, when first seen, it was so directly in a line with the fiery orb of the setting sun, as to escape common observation. As the brig went foaming on towards the ocean, however, the black speck was soon brought out of the range of the orb of day, and Spike’s glass was instantly leveled at it.