“Do you dress the brig, as well as undress her, o’nights, Capt. Spike?” inquired the ship-master’s relict, a little puzzled with this fickleness of purpose. “I do not believe my poor Mr. Budd ever did that.”
“Fashions change, madam, with the times—ay, ay, sir—shake out the reef, and sway away on that mast-rope, boys, as soon as you have manned it. We’ll convert our schooner into a brig again.”
As these orders were obeyed, of course, a general bustle now took place. Mulford soon had the reef out, and the sail distended to the utmost, while the topgallant-mast was soon up and fidded. The next thing was to sway upon the fore-yard, and get that into its place. The people were busied at this duty, when a hoarse hail came across the water on the heavy night air.
“Brig ahoy!” was the call.
“Sway upon that fore-yard,” said Spike, unmoved by this summons—“start it, start it at once.”
“The steamer hails us, sir,” said the mate.
“Not she. She is hailing a brig; we are a schooner yet.”
A moment of active exertion succeeded, during which the foreyard went into its place. Then came a second hail.
“Schooner, ahoy!” was the summons this time.
“The steamer hails us again, Capt. Spike.”