The boy groped his way forward.
In the bows a dark lantern on the deck shone on a group of sea-boots.
"Pretty night for our work, sir," came a cheery voice. "Might ha been made for us."
"Where are we?" asked the boy.
"Yon's Seaford Head, sir," as a great white dimness thrust out of the mist towards them. "We're layin along close inshore. See that glimmer forrad on the port-bow?—Ah, it's gone again! That's the Seven Sisters. And between the last o them and Beachy Head lays Birling Gap. And somewhere there or thereabouts, we'll make our cop, if a cop it's to be."
"Who is it we're after?"
"Lugger _Kite, sir—Black Diamond's craft….
"Funny thing fortune, sir," the man continued after a pause. "Never know how it's going to take you till you're took. Little thing sims to sway it. At one day's time there warn't a smarter seaman afloat than Bert Diamond. Might ha rose to the quarter-deck—just the sort; got a way with him and that. Only one fault, sir—the sailor's failin."
"What's that?"
"Too lovin by fur….