I accordingly took the instrument, and soon had the stranger sharply focused in the lenses.  She was then broad on our starboard bow, and was still hull-down, but she had risen just to the foot of her fore course, which was set, while the mainsail hung in its clewlines and buntlines, and was running down with squared yards, but had no studding-sails set. And, as Carter had remarked, she seemed to be steering in such a manner as to intercept us.  She was a brig of about the same tonnage as the _Shark_, of which craft she somehow reminded me sufficiently to invite a closer and more detailed scrutiny, and presently I was able to make out that she flew a pennant; she was consequently a man-o'-war.  It is true that the _Shark_ was not the only brig on the West African station: the British had two others, and we knew of three under the French pennant; but the craft in sight was not French--I could swear to that--and the longer I looked at her the more firmly convinced did I become that she was none other than the dear old _Shark_ herself.  I could not be absolutely certain of her identity until her hull should heave up clear of the horizon, but that jaunty steeve of bowsprit and the hoist and spread of those topsails were all very strongly suggestive of the _Shark_.  As I lowered the glass from my eye I happened to glance forward, and caught sight of Jones and Simpson seated forward on the topgallant forecastle, smoking their pipes as they animatedly discussed some topic of absorbing interest, and, catching their eyes, I beckoned them to come aft to the poop.