“Let’s have a look at her, Leigh,” he said, after a glance at a long, low, red-sailed lugger, about a couple of miles ahead, sailing fast in the light breeze.
He took the spyglass, and, going forward, looked long and steadily at the lugger before saying a word.
“Well, sir?”
“French lugger, certainly, Leigh,” he said, quietly; “fresh from the fishing-ground I should say. They wouldn’t attempt to run a cargo now.”
“But you’ll overhaul her, sir, won’t you?”
“It’s not worth while, Leigh, but as you have roused me up, it will be something to do. Here, call the lads up. Where’s Waters? Waters!”
“Ay, ay, sir,” replied that worthy in a voice of thunder, though he was close at hand.
“Load the long gun, and be ready to fire.”
“Ay, ay, sir.”
There was no beating to quarters, for the little crew were on deck, and every man fell naturally into his place as the lieutenant seemed now to wake up to his work, and glanced at the sails, which were all set, and giving his orders sharply and well, a pull was taken at a sheet here and a pull there, the helm altered, and in spite of the lightness of the breeze the Kestrel began to work along with an increase of speed of quite two knots an hour.