It is scarcely necessary to say that Mulford sailed a boat well. He held the sheet in his hand, as the little craft came up under the lee-quarter of the brig, while Jack stood by the brail. The eyes of the mate glanced over the hull of the vessel to ascertain, if possible, who might be stirring; but not a sign of life could he detect on board her. This very silence made Mulford more distrustful and anxious, for he feared a trap was set for him. He expected to see the head of one of the blacks at least peering over the bulwarks, but nothing like a man was visible. It was too late to pause, however, and the sheet was slowly eased off, Jack hauling on the brail at the same time; the object being to prevent the sail’s flapping, and the sound reaching the ears of Spike. As Mulford used great caution, and had previously schooled Jack on the subject, this important point was successfully achieved. Then the mate put his helm down, and the boat shot up under the brig’s lee-bow. Jack was ready to lay hold of one of the bowsprit-shrouds, and presently the boat was breasted up under the desired port, and secured in that position. Mulford quitted the stern-sheets, and cast a look in upon deck. Nothing was to be seen, though he heard the heavy breathing of the blacks, both of whom were sound asleep on a sail that they had spread on the forecastle. The mate whispered for Biddy to come to the port. This the Irish woman did at once, having kissed Rose, and taken her leave of her previously. Tier also came to the port, through which he passed, getting on deck with a view to assist Biddy, who was awkward, almost as a matter of course, to pass through the same opening. He had just succeeded, when the whole party was startled, some of them almost petrified, indeed, by a hail from the quarter-deck in the well-known, deep tones of Spike. “For’ard, there?” hailed the captain. Receiving no answer, he immediately repeated, in a shorter, quicker call, “Forecastle, there?” “Sir,” answered Jack Tier, who by this time had come to his senses. “Who has the look-out on that forecastle?” “I have it, sir—I, Jack Tier. You know, sir, I was to have it from two ’till daylight.” “Ay, ay, I remember now. How does the brig ride to her anchor?” “As steady as a church, sir. She has had no more sheer the whole watch than if she was moored head and stern.” “Does the wind stand as it did?” “No change, sir. As dead a trade wind as ever blowed.” “What hard breathing is that I hear for’ard?” “’Tis the two niggers, sir. They’ve turned in on deck, and are napping it off at the rate of six knots. There’s no keepin’ way with a nigger in snoring.” “I thought I heard loud whispering, too, but I suppose it was a sort of half-dream. I’m often in that way now-a-days. Jack!” “Sir.” “Go to the scuttle-butt and get me a pot of fresh water—my coppers are hot with hard thinking.”