Peter grunted.
"You said?" Murray inquired courteously.
"Neen, I saidt not'ings. But I t'ink—I t'ink it is all right if you get der Walrus and yourself come safe. If you don't do bot' it don't matter if you do der odder; neen."
My great-uncle raised his prospect-glass.
"You have ably stated one of the primary rules of success in any branch of warfare, friend Peter," he said. "Captain Flint is making better going of it than I had expected. Apparently by some perversity of our continuing ill-luck he hath a more constant wind close under the island than we out here. Ah! I hear Coupeau's bark."
A cloud of smoke rolled aft as the long eighteen on the la'b'd side of the James' fo'csle boomed. The shot dashed up a fountain of water a few feet ahead of the Walrus, which was now running neck and neck with us. Flint replied with one of his long twelves, but the shot fell short, and he edged away as much as he dared, which was very little, for Murray had seen to it that he had bare sailing-room. Our chase-gun barked again, and this time the round shot ricocheted from the water's surface and slapped into the Walrus' hull.
"Neat," commented my great-uncle; "but what we require is a fair hit on a spar."
Coupeau realized as much, as was evidenced by his next two shots going high and striking the water beyond the target. But I was distracted from watching his efforts, for at the fifth discharge Moira O'Donnell crept up the poop ladder, her eyes wide with misgiving.
"Troth, yourself promised only a few minutes since you'd not leave me by my lone was there more fighting, Bob," she reproached me.
"'Tis no fight," I answered.