"Put her helm down, a little," the captain ordered. "That is enough.
"Now, boatswain, you are well within range. Let us see what you can do. Fire when you have got her well on your sights."
A few seconds later there was a flash, and a roar. All eyes were directed on the lugger, which the captain was watching through his glass. There was a shout from the men. The ball had passed through the great foresail, a couple of feet from the mast.
"Very good," the captain said. "Give her a trifle more elevation, next time. If you can hit the yard, it will be just as good as hitting the mast.
"Ah! There she goes!"
Two puffs of white smoke broke out from the lugger's bow. One shot struck the water nearly abreast of the brig, at a distance of ten yards. The other fell short.
"Fourteens!" the captain said. "I thought she wouldn't have eighteens, so far forward."
Shot after shot was fired but, so far, no serious damage had been caused by them. The brig had been hulled once, and two shots had passed through her sails.
The captain went, himself, to the pivot gun; and laid it carefully. Bob stood watching the lugger intently, and gave a shout as he saw the foresail run rapidly down.
"It is only the slings cut," the second mate--who was standing by him--said. "They will have it up again, in a minute. If the shot had been the least bit lower, it would have smashed the yard."