uckling at this idea, he put an extra quid in his mouth, and
ruminated in a better frame of mind.

In the morning, Mr. Simpkins turned out betimes to prepare for the
landing of a portion of the cargo; and he was busied in this duty,
when an incident occurred that might well have startled a less ready
and self-possessed man than the mate of the Zanthe.

Suddenly rounding the headland on the north, a cutter, with the
Mexican flag flying at her mizzen peak, and the muzzles of her guns
gleaming through the port holes, came in view of the astonished mate.
She stood into the bay, till within rifle shot of the bow of the
Zanthe, when she dropped her sails and came to anchor.

As she accomplished this manoeuvre, the mate mustered the crew, run
out his guns, which were all shotted, and then quietly roused the
captain and brought him on deck.

"That looks a little wicked, cap'n," said the mate, pointing at the
revenue cutter.

The captain shook his head.

"Now, cap'n," said the mate, briskly, "just speak the word, and I'll
give him my starboard battery before the slow-motioned critter fires a
gun."

"No, no," said the captain; "wait!"

Mr. Simpkins looked fixedly at the captain, thrust his hands deep into
the pockets of his pea jacket, and sitting down on the breech of a
gun, whistled Yankee Doodle in such slow time that it sounded like a
dead march.

In another minute, a barge was lowered from the side of the Mexican
cutter, and manned with armed sailors, while an officer in uniform
took his seat in the stern sheets.

The barge pulled alongside, Captain Morris neither hailing nor
offering to take any action in the premises. Leaving only a boatkeeper
in the barge, the Mexican officer, followed by his crew, sprang up the
ladder, and bounding on deck, struck his drawn sword on the capstan,
and announced the Zanthe as his prize.

"To whom shall I have the honor of surrendering?" asked Captain
Morris, touching his hat.

"My name," said the officer, glancing from a paper he held in his
hand, as he spoke, "is Captain Ramon Morena, of the Vengador cutter.
You, I presume, are Captain Morris, of the Zanthe."

Morris bowed.

"And you are Pardon G. Simpkins, I suppose," said the Mexican,
addressing the mate.

"Pardon G. Simpkins--five thousand dollars," replied that gentleman.

"Captain Morena," said Morris, "before we proceed to business, do me
the favor to walk into my cabin. While we are below," he added, "I
trust