“What would you do then?” said another familiar voice.
“Face them as a king’s ship should.”
“One frigate against four—one of which seems to be a two-decker, eh? Well, I say, the skipper’s right to cut and run.”
“Cut and run from the presence of the enemy—his father going to flee?” Syd felt the blood come into his face, as he listened to the rapid orders that were given, as the ship’s course was altered, and in a short time the Sirius was rushing through the sea at a tremendous rate.
Syd bit his lip, and felt cold with shame and mortification. It seemed to him that he would not be able to face his messmates down below that evening; and seizing the opportunity he made his way to where the bo’sun was standing, silver pipe in hand, ready for the next order that might come.
“Barney,” he whispered, “we’re running away.”
“Not us, my lad,” said the old sailor, gruffly. “Four to one means having our top gear knocked about our deck, and then boarding. Skipper knows what he’s about, and strikes me he’ll ’stonish some o’ them Mounseers afore they know where they are.”
“Then, why don’t we go and fight them?”
“Good sword-play don’t mean going and blunder-headed chopping at a man like one goes at a tree, but fencing a bit till you get your chance. We’re fencing, lad. What we’ve got to do is to take or sink all the enemy we can, not get took or sunk ourselves.”
“But the glory, Barney.”