Mr. Simpkins looked fixedly at the captain, thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his pea jacket, and sitting down on the breech of a gun, whistled Yankee Doodle in such slow time that it sounded like a dead march.
In another minute, a barge was lowered from the side of the Mexican cutter, and manned with armed sailors, while an officer in uniform took his seat in the stern sheets.
The barge pulled alongside, Captain Morris neither hailing nor offering to take any action in the premises. Leaving only a boatkeeper in the barge, the Mexican officer, followed by his crew, sprang up the ladder, and bounding on deck, struck his drawn sword on the capstan, and announced the Zanthe as his prize.
"To whom shall I have the honor of surrendering?" asked Captain Morris, touching his hat.
"My name," said the officer, glancing from a paper he held in his hand, as he spoke, "is Captain Ramon Morena, of the Vengador cutter. You, I presume, are Captain Morris, of the Zanthe."
Morris bowed.
"And you are Pardon G. Simpkins, I suppose," said the Mexican, addressing the mate.
"Pardon G. Simpkins—five thousand dollars," replied that gentleman.
"Captain Morena," said Morris, "before we proceed to business, do me the favor to walk into my cabin. While we are below," he added, "I trust your men will be ordered not to maltreat my poor fellows."
The Mexican captain glanced, with some surprise, at the formidable array of men upon the deck of the Zanthe, and then, after a few words in Spanish to his boat's crew, followed the captain and mate into the cabin.