But for whom?—and what would happen when that somebody came?
The door opened another inch or two, and through it, Kit saw the privateer, black on the white water.
In a flash he understood.
The man was waiting for the French.
III
The humour of the thing—this lonely swordsman lying in wait behind the door for the crew of the privateer—seized the boy by the throat. The laughter poured out of him headlong.
The man leapt round, dark-faced and terrible. In a twinkle he was across the floor, wary as a panther.
The door opened.
Out he came, thrusting stealthily, his blade leading him. His flanks were covered, himself almost unseen in the dark of the door.
Whatever else the man might be, he was a soldier born.