And indeed the lobster-back gave every evidence of having spoken the truth, for if ever a man enjoyed himself he was that one, taking his trick at the wheel, or, when not engaged in some odd job about the sloop, lying at full length on the cockpit floor, smoking, or getting an extra “forty winks” in the cuddy. “By the time this ’ere craft makes Bowlin’ Green in New York, I allow he’ll be so near a Yankee as to go runnin’ ’round Long Island huntin’ for a piece of land that can be bought cheap, so’s to go to farmin’,” Abel Grant said laughingly, and perhaps at this point I should say that the Britisher had given his name as “Seth Hartley.” “But in case of bein’ overhauled before we get there, perhaps I have come so near makin’ Tories out of you that all hands will be throwin’ up their hats shoutin’ for the king,” the prisoner replied, and there was hardly an hour in the day when he and Abel Grant did not exchange some such remarks as these. During the first eight and forty hours after taking leave of the frigate without going through any very formal ceremony, the fog enveloped everything so completely that we never had a glimpse of the land, although often hearing the roar of the breakers on the shore, nor, as a matter of course, did we sight a vessel. It was on the morning of the third day out that we got a shock which was much like receiving a bucket full of cold water suddenly on one’s bare flesh, for then, as the fog thinned, not more than half a mile to the eastward was an armed vessel flying British colors, and Seth Hartley set her down as a transport lately come from Boston. The wind was light; the Swiftsure was making hardly more than two miles an hour, and if so be the officers of the stranger desired to overhaul us, it would only have been necessary to send out a boat with no more than two pairs of oars, when we would have been at their mercy. “I’m thinkin’ she’ll want to know who you are,” the prisoner said thoughtfully, as if surveying the craft, and I, watching him intently, could not see any show of joy in his face at the idea that his friends might soon be our captors. “If so be she’s come from Boston, I’m allowin’ we can tell a decently good yarn,” Abel Grant said as if in reply; but the expression of anxiety on his face told that he was far from being as confident as his words would imply. “If we claim to be fishermen, they might insist on taking us aboard to act as pilots,” Abraham suggested, and our prisoner added: “I’m thinkin’ if you get into trouble through her, that’s about the way the trick will be done, unless she’s one of the fleet which has put out in search for you, which I much misdoubt.” Then we fell silent, every man jack of us, including Seth Hartley, watching intently the ship which appeared to be hardly moving through the water, and it soon became apparent to all that unless the wind strengthened speedily, we would be carried by the current well within hail of the Britisher.