“But they haven’t got them on board yet,” I said, unable in spite of myself to help feeling a little sympathy for the man who was making such a bold effort to escape. “Why, they’re taking my father prisoner instead of yours, Bigley. I hope they’ll bring him back.”
“Look!” cried Bigley; “father’s getting up a topsail, and that’ll help them along wonderfully.”
“Look!” I cried; “the cutter’s close up to the gig now.”
“Hurrah!” cried Bigley; “there goes the topsail. Look how tight they’ve hauled the sheets, and how the lugger heels over.”
“The cutter has the gig alongside,” I cried as excitedly, for, though I did not want old Jonas caught, my father was there.
“Why, they’re running out another spar,” cried Bigley, “so as to hoist more sail. Look at the lugger, how she is spinning along!”
“Yes,” I said; “but look at the cutter now!”
Bigley drew a long breath as he saw with me that the gig’s crew were on board the cutter, and that the boat was being hoisted up, while, at the same time, with the speed to be seen on a man-of-war, even if it be so insignificant a vessel as a revenue cutter, sail was being hoisted, and she was off full chase.
First we saw the jib-sail run up and fill. Then up went the gaff topsail, and as it filled the cutter seemed to lie over, so that we could not see her deck, while the white water foamed away from her bows, and she left a long streak behind.