“Now then, Leigh, shall we ever have her, or shall we have to throw a shot across her bows to bring her to?”
“Let them have a shot, sir,” cried the young officer, whose cheeks were beginning to flush with excitement, as he watched the quarry of which the little falcon was in chase.
“And waste the king’s powder and ball, eh? No, Leigh, there will be no need. But we may as well put on our swords.”
Meanwhile, Billy Waters was busy unlashing the tail of Long Tom, as he called the iron gun forward, and with a pat of affection he opened the ammunition chest, and got out the flannel bag of powder and smiled at a messmate, rammer in hand.
“Let’s give him his breakfast, or else he won’t bark,” he said, with a grin; and the charge was rammed home, the ball sent after it with a big wad to keep it in its place, and the men waited eagerly for the order to fire.
Billy Waters knew that that would not come for some time, so he sidled up to Hilary, and whispered as the young man was buckling on his sword, the lieutenant having gone below to exchange a shabby cap for his cocked hat, “Let me have your sword a minute, sir, and I’ll make it like a razor.”
Hilary hesitated for a moment, and then drew it, and held it out to the gunner, who went below, and by the time the young officer had had a good inspection of the lugger, Billy came back with his left thumb trying the edge of the sword.
“I wouldn’t be too hard on ’em, sir,” he said, with mock respect.
“What do you mean, Billy?”
“Don’t take off too many Frenchies’ heads, sir; not as they’d know it, with a blade like that.”