"Duds," replied the boy as swift.
The Gentleman, sitting still as death, stared. It was an appalling moment. The boy could not face those eyes. He looked behind him. As he did so, the mist above drifted away, and the Union Jack at the foretop of the privateer floated out.
"There's her colours!" he panted.
"By Jove, you're right," cried the Gentleman, and began to row the boat clumsily about. "Stop that hole in the bottom with your foot, will you?"
The boat was water-logged and filling fast. The water was already over the Gentleman's spurs.
Down on his knees the boy baled for his life.
Behind him he heard a word of command: then the splash of oars, and the regular thump of rowlocks. The privateer's boat was away—a ten- oared galley from the sound of her, and they were driving her.
"Row, sir, row!" urged the boy. "They're after us!"
The Gentleman flung back into his oars.
Kit could not but admire him. He was rowing, as he believed, against death. The boat was sodden; he could not row; and the pursuers were coming up hand over hand. Yet his eyes danced, as he gasped,