At eleven o’clock the Portland lights were made by the revenue-cutter Active. Mr Appleboy went up to have a look at them, ordered the cutter to be hove to, and then went down to finish his allowance of gin-toddy. At twelve o’clock, the yacht Arrow made the Portland lights, and continued her course, hardly stemming the ebb tide.
Day broke, and the horizon was clear. The first on the look-out were, of course, the smugglers; they, and those on board the revenue-cutter, were the only two interested parties—the yacht was neuter.
“There are two cutters in sight, sir,” said Corbett, who had the watch; for Pickersgill, having been up the whole night, had thrown himself down on the bed with his clothes on.
“What do they look like?” said Pickersgill, who was up in a moment.
“One is a yacht, and the other may be; but I rather think, as far as I can judge in the grey, that it is our old friend off here.”
“What! Old Appleboy?”
“Yes, it looks like him; but the day has scarcely broke yet.”
“Well, he can do nothing in a light wind like this; and before the wind we can show him our heels: but are you sure the other is a yacht?” said Pickersgill, coming on deck.
“Yes; the king is more careful of his canvas.”
“You’re right,” said Pickersgill, “that is a yacht; and you’re right there again in your guess—that is the stupid old Active which creeps about creeping for tubs. Well, I see nothing to alarm us at present, provided it don’t fall a dead calm, and then we must take to our boats as soon as he takes to his; we are four miles from him at least. Watch his motions, Corbett, and see if he lowers a boat. What does she go now? Four knots?—that will soon tire their men.”