There was a threatening shout from the boat and a hostile movement of weapons, to which Butters responded by roaring out in broad, plain English—
“Ay, ay, sir! All right! Clumsy lubber! Break his head.”
As he spoke he moved slowly to the wheel, seized the spokes, rammed them down as if confused, and then hurriedly turned them the other way, with the result that the schooner still kept gliding slowly on, with the cutter at the same distance astern.
“That’ll do,” said the skipper; “drop it now,” and trembling with excitement as he grasped the manoeuvres being played Fitz made a grab at Poole’s arm, while Poole made a grab at his, and they stood as one, waiting for the result.
In obedience to his orders, the boatswain now turned and held the schooner well up in the wind, her forward motion gradually ceasing, and the gunboat’s cutter now gaining upon them fast.
“Why, the sun’s gone down,” whispered Fitz excitedly.
“Yes,” said Poole, “and the stars are beginning to show.”
“In another five minutes,” said Fitz, “it will be getting dusk.”
“And in another ten,” whispered Poole hoarsely, “it will be dark. Oh, dad, now I can see through your game.”
“So can I,” whispered Fitz, though the words were not addressed to him. “Why, Poole, he means to fight!”