It still wanted a couple of hours of sunset when the morning’s position was reached, and with favourable wind and the signal flying they were running close in, when Fitz suddenly caught Poole by the arm.
“Look yonder,” he said.
“What at?—My word!”
The boy rushed aft to where his father was standing watching the distant city through his glass; but that which he was about to impart was already clearly seen. From behind a wooded point about a mile behind them the black trail of smoke rising from a steamer’s funnel was slowly ascending into the soft air, and for a few moments the skipper stood with his teeth set and his face contracted with disappointment and rage.
“Think they have seen us, Burgess?” he said at last.
“Yes; they have been lying in hiding there, watching us till we were well inside.”
“Can we get outside again?”
“Not a chance of it,” was the reply; “the wind will be dead in our teeth, and we can only tack, while they are coming on full speed, and can begin playing long bowls at us with heavy shot whenever they like.”
“What’s to be done?” said the skipper, and without waiting for an answer he added, “Keep on right in. There is one chance yet.”
“There, don’t look so precious pleased,” Poole whispered to Fitz. “We are not taken yet.”