IV
"Ready, Blob!"
The boy was white as steel.
He had no body. He was not afraid.
Nelson was calling him, and he should not call in vain.
Over the crest stormed the leading Grenadier, monstrous-seeming against the sky.
Kit fired at the man's cross-belts.
Down the shingle the fellow sprawled, whether dead or alive, wounded or whole, Kit knew not till he splashed into the water, and lay still in the flop of the tide.
Behind him came the smugglers.
As they topped the crest a star hung above their heads, then fell, flashing.
"Four—and—five!" came the Parson's voice.
"He's on us!" screamed Dingy Joe. "Sword and all!"
They broke away to right and left along the ridge like a covey of partridges when the hawk swoops.
Anything to get away from that avenging voice roaring out of a whirlwind of lightnings!
"After em, Knapp!"
Slung along by his own impetus, the Parson hurled down the steep.
"Warm work!" he panted, grinning luridly at the boy, and he brought up with a bang against the lugger.
As he shocked against the boat, the great tan sail filled. Shock and wind together gave the necessary impulse. The lugger, light as a bubble, swayed, slithered, crunched down the shingle, felt the greased bat, and took the water with a dip and lovely curtsey.
"We're through!" roared the Parson, sprawling upon the side.