The lugger thumped through the seas, tugging at her tiller, eager as himself. She reminded him of the scuttling haste with which old Trumps, his pony, bustled along, head set for home; and he laughed merrily. The fuss and fury of the little thing contrasted so ludicrously with the majestic calm of the swan-lady sweeping towards him.
The frigate was close on him now.
As the lugger topped the ridges, Kit, peering beneath the boom, could see the black and yellow of the Nelson chequer on her sides.
Clouds of canvas, tier on tier, towered above him.
He could see the shine of her bows as she lifted, dripping. The water spurted from her foot in foaming cataracts as she plunged.
He steered as though to cross her bows. When he heard the swish of the green waters cleaving before her keel, he put his helm hard down.
"Hail them, Blob!" he screamed, and scrambling forward brought the lug-sail down with a rattle.
"Boat ahoy_" a voice from the frigate "who are you?"
Blob stood in the bows, one hand on the flapping jib. "Oi'm Blob Oad what killed Nabowlin Bownabaardie," he yelled.
The frigate, standing stately on, swung up alongside. Kit, rushing to the side, fended her off, as she slid past, huge above him.