y old arms
to do it. But now they merely dipped the long oar-blades in the water,
and could not keep up with the barge.

They knew--those corrugated old salts--that their gallant, considerate
young captain there in the stern-sheets, with the tiller-ropes in his
hands, who steered so wildly about the harbor, had something more
yielding than white-laced rope in his flippers; and that the sweet
little craft under white dimity, with her head throwing off the
sparkling spray as she lay under his bows, was in no hurry to go to
sea--not caring much, either, to what port she was bound, so long as she
found good holding-ground when she got in harbor with both bowers down,
and cargo ready for another voyage--not she!

Finally, old Jacob Blunt, master, again in full command of brig
"Martha," with Mr. Binnacle Binks catting the anchor forward, all sail
made, sheets home, and every thing shipshape, with a fresh, steady
land-wind, and a light gig towing astern, went steering out to sea,
bound to New Orleans by way of the Windward Passage.

At the first ray of sunrise the gig's line was cast off; and with the
waves breaking over her, those four old sons of Daddy Neptune bared
their tattooed arms--illustrative of ships, anchors, and maidens--and
bent their bodies with a will toward the harbor.

"Take keer, sir, if it's the same to you, or we'll be on that ledge off
the ''Postles' Battery.' It looks jist like that 'ere reef in the
Vargin's Passage as I was wunce nearly 'racked on, in the 'Smasher,'
sixteen-gun brig."

"No fear, Harry Greenfield."

"Beg your parding, Mr. Darcantel, but that 'ere wessel you is heading
for is that old clump of a Spanish gun-boat; our craft is off here,
under the quarter of the 'Monongaheelee.'"

"Oh yes, Charley; I see the 'Rosalie.'"

What made these old salts slew gravely round one to the other, as their
sixteen-feet oars rattled with a regular jar in the brass row-locks, and
shut one eye tight, as if they enjoyed something themselves? Probably
they were thinking of a strapping lass, in blue ribbons, who lived
somewhere in a sea-port town long years ago. But yet they loved that
young slip of sea-weed, whose head was bent down to the buttons of his
blue jacket, his epaulet lopsided on his shoulder, his sword hilt
downward, and his brown eyes tracing the lines of the ash grating where
pretty feet had once rested, while he jerked the tiller-ropes from side
to side, and his gig went wild by reef an