“More, Mr. Vance, more! And now duty calls me off. Your men, sir, shall be provided for. Good by.” Vance and the Commodore shook hands and parted. Vance was rowed back to the Artful Dodger. On his way, looking through his opera-glass, he could see Ratcliff in the cutter, gnawing his rage, and looking the incarnation of chagrin. The Catawba was making her toilet ready for a start. She lay at a short distance from the Artful. Vance, Winslow, Kenrick, and Onslow went on board, where the orders of the Commodore had secured for them excellent accommodations. Before noon a northeasterly breeze had sprung up, and they took their leave of the mouths of the Mississippi. Ratcliff no sooner touched the deck of the Brooklyn, than, conquering with an effort his haughtiness, he took off his hat, and, approaching the Commodore, asked for an interview. The Commodore was an old weather-beaten sailor, not far from his threescore and ten years. He kept no “circumlocution office” on board his ship, and as he valued his time, he could not tolerate any tortuous delays in coming to the point. “Commodore,” said Ratcliff, “’t is important I should have a few words with you immediately.” “Well, sir, be quick about it.” “Commodore, I have long known you by reputation as a man of honor. I have often heard Commodore Tatnall—” “The damned old traitor! Well sir?” “I beg pardon; I supposed you and Tatnall were intimate.” “So we were! Loved him once as my own brother. He and I and Percival have had many a jolly time together. But now, damn him! The man who could trample on the old flag that had protected and honored and enriched him all his life is no better than a beast. So damn him! Don’t let me hear his name again.” “I beg pardon, Commodore. As I was saying, we know you to be a gentleman—” “Stop! I’m an officer in the United States service. That’s the only capacity I shall allow you to address me in. Your salvy compliments make me sick. What do you want?” “It’s necessary I should return at once to New Orleans.” “Indeed! How do you propose to get there?” “When you hear my story, you’ll give me the facilities.” “Don’t flatter yourself. I shall do no such thing.” “But, Commodore, I came out in pursuit of an unfaithful agent, who was running off with my property.” “Hark you, sir, when you speak in those terms of Simon Winslow, you lie, and deserve the cat.” Ratcliff grew purple in the struggle to suppress an outburst of wrath. But, after nearly a minute of silence, he said: “Commodore, my wife died only a few hours ago. Her unburied remains lie in my house. Surely you’ll let me return to attend her funeral. You’ll not be so cruel as to refuse me.”