"This is glorious, Wal," cried Ned. "I'm going to stick her for sea, and give them a pull for it."
Notwithstanding a shot across their bows from the sixty-four, and a volley of small arms from the boats, they refused to heave to; and it was not till the man-o'-war's men were climbing over the side, that, sliding down the painter, they cut the rope and pulled away with might and main, the captors being too much occupied with their prize to concern themselves about them.
Having put a good distance between themselves and the boats, they lay upon their oars to breathe.
"Won't there be some swearing, Ned," said Walter, "when they come to look over their prize, and find her a condemned slaver, full of rocks?"
"Yes; but I guess there will be more when they find what I have written on the companion-way."
In the afternoon, while waiting for the fire-ship, Ned had written with chalk on the slide of the companion-way the value of the Arthur Brown's cargo, showing the man-o'-war's men what a rich prize they had lost, closing with some reflections upon the disappointments to which mankind are liable, and leaving the best respects of himself and Walter.
In the mean time the Arthur Brown, without a single sail set to attract attention, propelled by muffled sweeps, and skilfully piloted by Jacques, was creeping along under the shadow of the land in calm water, till, entirely beyond the reach of observation, a kedge was silently lowered to the bottom, and she waited for her boat. Upon the arrival of the boys, with every inch of canvas spread, the swift vessel, now swifter than ever (for she had been coppered in Marseilles—a recent practice, and at that time scarcely known in the States), turned her prow homeward.
Just as the sun rose above the horizon in the morning, the lookout at the mast-head of the Agamemnon, sung out, "Sail, O!"
"Where away?"
"Right ahead, sir."