“Just take a look at them chaps, Mr. Mulford,” said Spike, handing his mate the glass.
“They seem in a hurry,” answered Harry, as he adjusted the glass to his eye, “and will go through the Gate in less time than it will take to mention the circumstance.”
“What do you make of them, sir?”
“The little man who called himself Jack Tier is in the stern-sheets of the boat, for one,” answered Mulford.
“And the other, Harry—what do you make of the other?”
“It seems to be the chap who hailed to know if we had a pilot. He means to board us at Riker’s Island, and make us pay pilotage, whether we want his services or not.”
“Blast him and his pilotage too! Give me the glass”—taking another long look at the boat, which by this time was glancing, rather than pulling, nearly at right angles across his bows. “I want no such pilot aboard here, Mr. Mulford. Take another look at him—here, you can see him, away on our weather bow, already.”
Mulford did take another look at him, and this time his examination was longer and more scrutinising than before.
“It is not easy to cover him with the glass,” observed the young man—“the boat seems fairly to fly.”
“We’re forereaching too near the Hog’s Back, Capt. Spike,” roared the boatswain, from forward.