Pickersgill took out his glass.
“Yes, and the yacht’s own boat with the name painted on her bows. Well, let them come—we will have no ceremony in resisting them; they are not in the Act of Parliament, and must take the consequences. We have nought to fear. Get stretchers, my lads, and hand-spikes; they row six oars, and are three in the stern-sheets: they must be good men if they take us.”
In a few minutes Lord B— was close to the smuggler.
“Boat ahoy! What do you want?”
“Surrender in the king’s name.”
“To what, and to whom, and what are we to surrender? We are an English vessel coasting along shore.”
“Pull on board, my lads,” cried Stewart; “I am a king’s officer: we know her.”
The boat darted alongside, and Stewart and Lord B—, followed by the men, jumped on the deck.
“Well, gentlemen, what do you want?” said Pickersgill.
“We seize you! You are a smuggler,—there’s no denying it: look at the casks of spirits stretched along the deck.”