IV
The boy turned with beating heart: he had struck gold indeed.
Unshipping the despatch bag, he slung it about his shoulders.
Lifting the pistol, he snatched the chart, and thrust it under the flap of the locked bag.
The action set the candle swaling. It shot out a snake-like flame that licked the bald pate of the sleeping privateersman.
He awoke with a start and a sacre, clapping his hand to his singed head.
Then through drink-and-sleep-blurred eyes, he saw the naked figure by the door.
He half rose, little fat man, so pleased.
"Mon ange!" he cried, and fluttered both arms, much as Gwen's young canaries fluttered their wings when seeking food from their mother.
In a flash the boy had turned the key in the lock behind him, and flung it through the open port.
Then he swung the despatch-bag.
Many a pillow-fight with Gwen up and down the twisting passages of their attic nursery had made him expert. Crash it came down on Piggy's bald skull.
"One from your ange!" cried the lad, and followed up with a left-hander between the eyes.
Down crashed the amorous gentleman, spluttering.
A foot, planted fair on his mouth, stifled his cry.
Before he could recover, the boy was through the port, on to the lugger, and had slipped into the sea, quiet as a water-rat.
Behind him a dreadful scream woke the ship.
"Les depeches! Les depeches!"