"The first thing that caught my eye, accordingly, was the gleam of a sail rising from over the swell to windward, far away off our larboard quarter, seemingly rolling before the south-easter; while the Indiaman hove her big side steadily out of water, with her head across the other's course, and gave us a sight of the strange sail swinging to the fair wind, every time we rose on the surge. 'What is it, eh?' said the planter, turning to me, 'back or face, Collins? for, bless me, if I can distinguish tub from bucket, with all this bobbing about--great deal of capital indigo wasted hereabouts, my dear fellow!' 'Why, you may make out the two breasts of her royals,' said I--'a brig, I think, sir.' 'Not that abominable schooner in her first shape again, I hope!' exclaimed he; 'perhaps bringing back the Yankee.' 'Too square-shouldered for that, Mr Rollock,' I said; 'in fact, she seems to be signalling us; yes, by Jove! there's the long pennant at her fore-royal mast-head--she's a brig of war. They're surely asleep on deck, and we shall have a shot directly, if they don't look sharp!' 'You'd better say nothing about the Yankee's absence, Collins,' put in the planter, 'till we're fairly away. For my part, I really have no notion of waiting for anyone--particularly a fellow who _must_ have some go-ahead scheme in his noddle, which we Indians don't want. Quietly speaking, my dear fellow, I shall be glad if we're rid of him!' "On my mentioning what sort of 'notions' were found in Mr Snout's berth, and the drowning of his heathen images, the worthy planter went into perfect convulsions, till I thought I should have to slap him on the back to give him breath. 'What the deuce!' said he at last; 'Daniel must really have something worth his while to expect before he'd fail to look after such a treasure!' 'Ah,' said I, not attending to him, as I heard a stir on deck, 'there we go at last, cluing up the topsails, I suppose.' 'Seriously, now,' continued Mr Rollock, 'I can _not_ fathom that vessel and her designs; but I bless my stars at getting clear off from the company of that tall Frenchman with his moustache--can't bear a moustache, Collins--always reminds me of those cursed Mahrattas that burnt my factory once. Couldn't the man shave like a Christian, I wonder? I defy you to enjoy mulligatawny soup and not make a beast of yourself, with ever so much hair over your mouth. By-the-way, Collins,' added he, eyeing me, 'since I saw you last, you've let your whiskers grow, and look more like one of your nauticals than Ford himself!--should scarce have known you! Any of it owing to the fair one up yonder, eh?' And the jolly old chap, whose own huge white whiskers gave him the cut of a royal Bengal tiger, pointed with his thumb over his shoulder towards the round-house above, with a wink of his funny round eye, that looked at you like a bird's. 'What do you suppose the Frenchman to be then, sir?' asked I, gloomily. 'Oh, either a madman, a