“Had a bad name in Castalia, didn’t he?”
“Oh, a little more or less that I heard of, but what’s that in a fisherman? When the men come in have them go through all the bait.”
Pete fired the old rifle, and the crew at work began to pull in through the choppy sea.
“Hello!” cried the mate, looking behind him. “There’s something going to be doin’ here in a minute. It’s the cutter from Halifax, all right.”
Code, his former danger forgotten for the time, glanced up. The smudge of smoke had quickly resolved 158 itself into a stubby, gray steam-vessel with a few bright brass guns forward and a black cloud belching from her funnel. She was still some five miles away, but apparently coming at top speed.
Three miles before her, with all sails set, including staysail and balloon-job, raced a fishing schooner. There was a fresh ten-knot wind blowing a little south of west––a wind that favored the schooner, and she was putting her best foot forward, taking the green water over her bows in a smother of foam.
“Heavens! look at her go!”
The exclamation was one of pure delight in the speed.
“Maybe she’s an American that’s been caught inside the three-mile limit, and is pullin’ away from the gunboat,” remarked Pete.
That she was pulling away there was little doubt. In the fifteen minutes that elapsed after her discovery she had widened the gap between herself and her pursuer. She was now within a mile of the Lass.