The shadow of the Cocotte fell across the sea nearly to their feet. The wind breathed on the waters, dulling them. The languid topsails swelled faintly.
The old man spun the wheel. The Tremendous swung towards her enemy.
Delicately across the glittering floor the two ships drew towards each other, wary as panthers about to fight.
There was dead silence, alow and aloft. Only the tricolour at the enemy's fore flapped insolently; and the red-cross flag, at the mizzen gaff of the sloop, licked out a long tongue and taunted back.
"That's Mouche at the wheel," grunted the old Commander—"her skipper. A fine fighter, but treecherous like em all…. Funny thing no one on deck only him. Swarmin with men too, I'll lay."
The French skipper too was at the wheel: a dapper little personage, black-a-vised, with fierce moustachios and eye-tufts.
He wore a huge tricorne, and vast tawdry epaulettes.
"How do you, sair?" he called, all bows and smiles and teeth, as the two ships came within biscuit-toss. "Vair please to meet you once more."
"Queer lingo, ain't it?" muttered old Ding-dong. "All spit and gargle. Comes from eatin all them frogs, I reck'n. Stick in their throats or summat."
He raised his voice.