Captain Risk stood on the port quarter with glass in hand, watching every rope and sail as he turned to his men and commanded sharply:
“Man that main-stay garnet, with a luff-tackle, bullies, and overboard cargo with a will. No time to lose, my lads.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” came from twenty throats, as every man jumped to his station.
The hatches came off in a trice, and the flour came swinging out, two barrels at a heave.
“No hell-hole of a British prison for us this day,” came out from the heart of every privateersman when he swung on the cargo with might and main.
A puff of smoke now appeared out of the bow of the Roebuck, which the crew of the Holker watched with bated breath, until the eighteen-pound shot fell three hundred feet astern.
A cheer rang from the watch on the Holker’s deck.
“Now, men, heave over the six-pounders!” ordered the unruffled Risk. “Every inch of free board means our bacon saved,” continued Risk, as he stepped to the wheel and ordered the helmsman to lighter ship.
Just then another puff of white smoke curled out of the frigate’s fore bulwarks and an eighteen-pound shot came crushing through the captain’s cabin, and buried itself among the flour barrels in the hold.
“That is close shavin’,” said Risk dryly. “Unbend that long tom and we’ll try that lime-juicer’s topsail!” ordered the little captain restlessly.