“Not to my recollection, sir,” answered the mate, looking over the taffrail to examine the parties. “The little one is a burster! The funniest-looking little fat old fellow I've seen in many a day.” “Ay, ay, them fat little bursters, as you call 'em, are sometimes full of the devil. I do n't like either of the chaps, and am right glad we are well cast, before they got here.” “I do not think either would be likely to do us much harm, Capt. Spike.” “There's no knowing sir. The biggest fellow looks as if he might lug out a silver oar at any moment.” “I believe the silver oar is no longer used, in this country at least,” answered Mulford, smiling. “And if it were, what have we to fear from it? I fancy the brig has paid her reckoning.” “She do n't owe a cent, nor ever shall for twenty-four hours after the bill is made out, while I own her. They call me ready-money Stephen, round among the ship-chandlers and caulkers. But I do n't like them chaps, and what I do n't relish I never swallow, you know.” “They 'll hardly try to get aboard us, sir; you see we are quite clear of the wharf, and the mainsail will take now, if we set it.” Spike ordered the mate to clap on the outhauler, and spread that broad sheet of canvas at once to the little breeze there was. This was almost immediately done, when the sail filled, and began to be felt on the movement of the vessel. Still, that movement was very slow, the wind being so light, and the vis inertioe of so large a body remaining to be overcome. The brig receded from the wharf, almost in a line at right angles to its face, inch by inch, as it might be, dropping slowly up with the tide at the same time. Mulford now passed forward to set the jibs, and to get the topsail on the craft, leaving Spike on the taffrail, keenly eyeing the strangers, who, by this time, had got down nearly to the end of the wharf, at the berth so lately occupied by the Swash. That the captain was uneasy was evident enough, that feeling being exhibited in his countenance, blended with a malignant ferocity. “Has that brig any pilot?” asked the larger and better-looking of the two strangers. “What's that to you, friend?” demanded Spike, in return. “Have you a Hell-Gate branch?” “I may have one, or I may not. It is not usual for so large a craft to run the Gate without a pilot.” “Oh! my gentleman's below, brushing up his logarithms. We shall have him on deck to take his departure before long, when I'll let him know your kind inquiries after his health.” The man on the wharf seemed to be familiar with this sort of sea-wit, and he made no answer, but continued that close scrutiny of the brig, by turning his eyes in all directions, now looking below, and now aloft, which had in truth occasioned Spike's principal cause for uneasiness.