"If we can't get at the boat," said Kit, "neither can the Gentleman."
"That's truth," mused the Parson, dropping the glass.
"He'll prowl about till night-fall probably. Then he'll have a chance —if they've got liquor. The boat's his one hope. He's in a tightish place, mind!—enemy's country; wings clipped; his old friends his best enemies."
"And he doesn't know whether the privateer's a Frenchman or not," said Kit. "Though, of course, he might come down to the shore and signal her—on chance."
"Not while it's light," replied the Parson grimly; "If he signalled from anywhere it'd be from here. And here I squat till dark. After dark he can signal till he's black in the face—he hasn't got a lantern."
The boy's anxious eyes were sea-ward.
The old pain of heart, forgotten for the moment in the cottage, had returned, the old sickening sense of failure. After all, the responsibility was his, and his alone. It was in him old Ding-dong had trusted; it was to him the scent-bottle had been bequeathed; the fate of Nelson rested on his shoulders.
Hither and thither his mind darted, seeking a way of escape from the net of circumstance.
"If we could only make sure of his thinking her an Englishman!" he fretted.
"She's flying no colours," said the Parson, "that's one good thing."