The last thing he did was to plant two of the men forward, where they readily played their parts of standing looking over the bulwarks, and watching the coming vessel.
For she had altered her course and came steadily toward them, after hoisting her colours—the Stars and Stripes—the same flag being sent aloft by Dick Bannock at a word from Mark.
“Now, my lads,” he said, “whatever you do in the boat, keep out of sight. If they catch a glimpse of you they’ll be off, and we may never get alongside.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” came eagerly from the boat in which the two black sailors had also been stowed, each looking eager and excited about the work to come.
The wind was light, and a couple of hours passed, with Mark’s steersman gradually edging the schooner nearer to the stranger, which, having the advantage of the wind, glided down to them, evidently meaning to speak them, and ask for news.
“It couldn’t be better, sir,” said Tom Fillot; “only if you would get one of the skipper’s big cigars and smoke it as you walk about, they’re sure to be using a spy-glass now and then.”
“But I can’t smoke, Tom.”
“Then light it, sir, and only blow at it so as to make the smoke show now and again. Have a lighted lanthorn under the bulwarks, and shove the end in now and then. It’ll make it all look so quiet and safe aboard that they’ll walk right into the trap.”
Mark did as he was requested, but with a good deal of discomfort; and then waited with a throbbing heart, and a strong desire to cough and sneeze from time to time as he marched about the deck, stopping to use his glass, and making out a tall, thin man similarly armed with a glass, and wearing a Panama hat as well.
But there was no sign of a black on board. Some half-dozen ordinary-looking sailors lounged about the deck, and save that it was such a smartly-built heavily-rigged craft, there was not a trace of her being anything but an ordinary trader.