The man below stopped humming. Kit could not see him; so he could not see the flag.
Down he slid, the mast scraping his knees as he went; but he scarcely felt the pain. His heart was swelling. The privateer was flying British colours. She was his. Single-handed he had taken a French ship. He was half in tears, half laughing. It seemed so dream-like, so ridiculous.
Down the shrouds, and back to the deck.
II
Not a soul stirred. Forward somewhere a man shouted in his sleep. Aft the sentinel was whistling now.
Swift as an eel, the boy flashed to the side, and poised for his plunge.
No! the splash would be heard.
Swiftly along the deck, making for his steppingstone, the lugger.
His work done, his heart brimming, the boy was ripe for mischief as a happy girl.
As he stole along the deck, his eyes never left the soldier's back. The fellow was leaning over the bulwark, his trousers tight, and their contents rounded and tempting. Should he, should he spank him?