“Yes, Madam Budd—‘Do you go by the Hook, or by Whirl-Gate?’ said Jones. ‘By Whirl-a-Gig-Gate,’ says I. ‘Well,’ says he, ‘I shall go through the Gate myself, in the course of the morning. We may meet somewhere to the eastward, and, if we do, I’ll bet you a beaver,’ says he, ‘that I show you my stern.’ ‘Agreed,’ says I, and we shook hands upon it. That’s the whole history of our giving the steamer the slip, last night, and of my not wishing to let her speak me.”
“But you went into a bay, and let her go past you,” said Rose, coolly enough as to manner, but with great point as to substance. “Was not that a singular way of winning a race?”
“It does seem so, Miss Rose, but it’s all plain enough, when understood. I found that steam was too much for sails, and I stood up into the bay to let them run past us, in hopes they would never find out the trick. I care as little for a hat, as any man, but I do care a good deal about having it reported on ’change that the Molly was beat, by even a steamer.”
This ended the discourse, for the moment, Clench again having something to say to his captain in private.
“How much of that explanation am I to believe, and how much disbelieve?” asked Rose, the instant she was left alone with Harry. “If it be all invention, it was a ready and ingenious story.”
“No part of it is true. He no more expected that the steamer would pass through Hell-Gate, than I expected it myself. There was no bet, or race, therefore; but it was our wish to avoid Uncle Sam’s cruiser, that was all.”
“And why should you wish any such thing?”
“On my honor, I can give you no better reason, so far as I am concerned, than the fact that, wishing to keep clear of her, I do not like to be overhauled. Nor can I tell you why Spike is so much in earnest in holding the revenue vessel at arm’s length; I know he dislikes all such craft, as a matter of course, but I can see no particular reason for it just now. A more innocent cargo was never struck into a vessel’s hold.”
“What is it?”
“Flour; and no great matter of that. The brig is not half full, being just in beautiful ballast trim, as if ready for a race. I can see no sufficient reason, beyond native antipathy, why Capt. Spike should wish to avoid any craft, for it is humbug his dread of a Mexican, and least of all, here in Long Island Sound. All that story about Jones is a tub for whales.”