III
The Gunner came up the ladder.
A sack was cast about his naked shoulders; his cocked hat was on the back of his head; and a tooth-pick between his lips.
He strolled to the side.
Beneath him the Cocotte, smoking like a damped furnace, the blood trickling from between her seams, was settling fast.
"Got her bellyful all snug," said the Gunner complacently, picking his teeth.
He strolled off to old Ding-dong, propped on his corpse beside the wheel.
"Well, sir, you play a pretty stick with a handspike still!—how's yerself?"
"Tidy," grunted the veteran. "How fur's yon frigate yet? I can't see over the side, settin on my little sofia."
"Within random shot, sir. She's got a slant of wind, and is crowding all sail to get alongside."