“Are we gaining on her, Leigh?” said the lieutenant.
“Just a little, sir, I think; but she creeps through the water at an awful rate.”
The lieutenant looked up at the white sails, but nothing more could be done, for the Kestrel was flying her best; and the water bubbled and sparkled as she cut her way through, leaving an ever-widening train behind.
There was no chance of more wind, and nothing could be done but to hold steadily on, for, at the end of half an hour, it was plain enough that the distance had been slightly reduced.
“However do they manage to make those luggers sail so fast?” exclaimed the lieutenant impatiently. “Leigh, if this turns out to be another of your mares’ nests, you’ll be in disgrace.”
“Very well, sir,” said the young man quietly.
And then to himself: “Better make some mistake than let the real thing slip by.”
The arms were not served out, for that would be but a minute’s task; but an arm chest was opened ready, and the men stood at their various stations, but in a far more lax and careless way than would have been observed on board a larger vessel, which in its turn would have been in point of discipline far behind a vessel of the present day.
The gulls and kittiwakes rose and fell, uttering their peevish wails; a large shoal of fish fretting the radiant surface of the sea was passed and about a dozen porpoises went right across the cutter’s bow, rising and diving down one after the other like so many black water-boys, playing at “Follow my leader;” but the eyes of all on board the Kestrel were fixed upon the dingy looking chasse marée, which apparently still kept on trying hard to escape by its speed.
And now the time, according to Billy Waters’ judgment, having come for sending a shot, he stood ready, linstock in hand, watching the lieutenant, whose one eye was gazing intently through the long leather-covered glass.