“Pressy! Chantez une chanson. Je vais me coucher.” (Sing a song, Pressy. I am going to bed.)
In a second the gallant Walker knew that, as once before, he was in the midst of some French vessels.
“Caught!” he whispered. “And I believe that they’re men-of-warsmen! Now we’re in a pretty pickle!”
His officers scowled.
“I know that they’re men-o’-warsmen,” said one, “for, just now, the fog lifted for a second, and I could make out—by their lights—that they were large gun-ships.”
Captain Walker looked dejected.
“The deuce,” said he.
But he soon regained his composure.
“Put every light out on board,” he ordered. “These fellows see us, for I hear them bearing over our way.”
Sure enough, from the swashing of water and glimmer of lights in the fog, it could be seen that the great lumbering men-of-war were closing in upon the privateer. But the Frenchmen had a human eel to capture and he was equal to the occasion.