“I wish I knew what was best to do,” Mark said to himself again.
“See that, sir?”
Mark looked round sharply.
“See what?”
“They’ve altered her course, sir, and are going after the other schooner.”
It was plain enough, now that his attention was drawn to the fact. The coast which had been on the starboard side was now on the port, and there, about a mile away was the other schooner just gliding round, and with her sails filling for the other tack.
“Joe Dance sees what they’re up to, sir, but he’ll never get away. Too short-handed.”
“But he and Grote mean to try for it. Look, Tom.”
“Ay, well done, my lads,” cried Tom Fillot, slapping his leg and then wincing. “Oh, how sore I am! He has the niggers hauling. Pull away, my lads, up with her. Go on, altogether—another pull. That’s her. Now then, sheet her home. My wig, look at her now, sir. She can sail.”
“Yes, like a yacht,” cried Mark, as the great mainsail, which had been only half hoisted in a slovenly way, now spread its broad canvas to the light breeze, and the graceful vessel sped rapidly through the calm sea, and passed out of their sight. “Why, Tom, this boat will have to sail well to catch her.”