"What do you think she is, captain?" Bob asked, when the two officers came down again to the poop.
"I should say that she was a craft about our own size, Bob; and I fancy she has come through the Straits, keeping well over the other side, so as to avoid our cruisers from Gib; and is now heading for Alicante. Now we are on our course again, parallel to the coast, there is no reason why she should suspect us of being anything but a trader. If she doesn't take the alarm, I hope we shall be alongside her in a few hours."
[Chapter 11]: Cutting Out A Prize.
The distant sail was anxiously watched from the Antelope. It closed in with them fast, running almost before the wind. In two hours, her hull could be seen from the deck.
Efforts had been made, by slacking the ropes and altering the set of the sails, to give the brig as slovenly an appearance as possible. The guns had been run in and the portholes closed and, as the Spaniard approached, the crew--with the exception of five or six men--were ordered to keep below the bulwarks.
The course that the Spaniard was taking would have brought her just under the stern of the Antelope when, suddenly, she was seen to change her course, and to bear up into the wind.
"Too late, my lady," the captain said; "you have blundered on too long.
"There is something in our cut that she doesn't like. Haul down that Spanish flag, and run the Union Jack up.
"Open ports, lads, and show them our teeth. Fire that bow gun across her forefoot!"
The guns were already loaded; and as soon as they were run out a shot was fired, as a message to the Spaniard to heave to. A minute later, as she paid no attention, a broadside followed. Three of the shots went crashing into the side of the Spaniard, and one of her boats was smashed.