“The steamer from which we ran, last evening, and which actually fired off a cannon at us, was not Mexican, but American,” said Rose, with a pointed manner that put Spike to his trumps. “Oh! that steamer--” he stammered--“that was a race--only a race, Miss Rose, and I wouldn't let her come near me, for the world. I should never hear the last of it, in the insurance offices, and on 'change, did I let her overhaul us. You see, Miss Rose--you see, Madam Budd--” Spike ever found it most convenient to address his mystifying discourse to the aunt, in preference to addressing it to the niece--“You see, Madam Budd, the master of that craft and I are old cronies--sailed together when boys, and set great store by each other. We met only last evening, just a'ter I had left your own agreeable mansion, Madam Budd, and says he, 'Spike, when do you sail?' 'To-morrow's flood, Jones,' says I--his name is Jones;--Peter Jones, and as good a fellow as ever lived. 'Do you go by the Hook, or by Hell-Gate--'” “Hurl-Gate, Captain Spike, if you please--or Whirl-Gate, which some people think is the true sound; but the other way of saying it is awful.” “Well, the captain, my old master, always called it Hell-Gate, and I learned the trick from him--” “I know he did, and so do all sailors; but genteel people, now-a-days, say nothing but Hurl-Gate, or Whirl-Gate.” Rose smiled at this; as did Mulford; but neither said anything, the subject having once before been up between them. As for ourselves, we are still so old-fashioned as to say, and write, Hell-Gate, and intend so to do, in spite of all the Yankees that have yet passed through it, or who ever shall pass through it, and that is saying a great deal. We do not like changing names to suit their uneasy spirits. “Call the place Hurl-Gate, and go on with your story,” said the widow, complacently. “Yes, Madam Budd--'Do you go by the Hook, or by Whirl-Gate?' said Jones. 'By Whirl-a-Gig-Gate,' says I. 'Well,' says he, 'I shall go through the Gate myself, in the course of the morning. We may meet somewhere to the eastward, and, if we do, I'll bet you a beaver,' says he, 'that I show you my stern.' 'Agreed,' says I, and we shook hands upon it. That's the whole history of our giving the steamer the slip, last night, and of my not wishing to let her speak me.” “But you went into a bay, and let her go past you,” said Rose, coolly enough as to manner, but with great point as to substance. “Was not that a singular way of winning a race?” “It does seem so, Miss Rose, but it's all plain enough, when understood. I found that steam was too much for sails, and I stood up into the bay to let them run past us, in hopes they would never find out the trick. I care as little for a hat as any man, but I do care a good deal about having it reported on 'change that the Molly was beat, by even a steamer.” This ended the discourse for the moment, Clench again having something to say to his captain in private.