e muddy cables coming in to the tunes of fifes; while
above the running gear was rove, the Sunday bunts to the sails cast off,
and the five hundred sailors dancing about on the decks, spars, and
rigging of that American double-banked frigate, as if they could always
work her sails and battery to the admiration of their good commodore
there, who was looking at them from the quarter-deck.

"Massa captan," said the shining ebony pilot, in his snowy suit, as he
took off his fine white Panama hat, "dis is de ole pilot, sa, Peter
Crabreef--name after dat black rock way dere outside. Suppose you tink
ob beating dis big frigate troo de channel? Unpossible, wid dis
breeze!"

"Peter Crabreef," said the old sailing-master, to whom these observations
were addressed, "you had better not give such a hint to that gentleman
there in the epaulets; for if you do, you'll never see Mrs. Crabreef
again! You had better keep your wits about you, too, and plenty of
water under the keel, for the commodore is fond of water!"

"Sartainly, massa ossifa! I is old Peter, and never yet touch a nail of
man-of-war copper battam on de reefs!"

On board the pigmy black schooner near, half a dozen old salt veterans
were squinting at the flag-ship and holding much deliberate speculation
as to what all the row meant. Old Harry Greenfield, however, with Ben
Brown, who were the gunner and boatswain of the little vessel, observed
that, "In the ewent of our bein' wanted, ye see, Harry, it will be as
well to have the deck tackle stretched along for heavin' in, and get the
prop from under the main boom."

Even as they spoke, a few bits of square bunting went up in balls to the
mizzen of the frigate, and, blowing out clear, said, as plain as flags
could speak, "Prepare to weigh anchor!"

At the same moment the "Rosalie's" gig came bounding like a bubble over
the water with the tall gentleman beside the young commander in the
stern-sheets. There was a great, nervous, bony hand now holding his, but
with as an affectionate pressure as the soft dimpled fingers he himself
had held the night before. Gig not steered at all wild now, but going as
straight as a bullet to the schooner.

The stirring sounds of the fifes as the sailors danced round with the
bars in the capstans, with a beating step to keep time to the lively
music, were still heard on board the frigate, and then came from the
forecastle,

"The anchor's under foot, sir!"

"Pawl the capstan! Aloft, s