George began to feel a trifle nervous as he watched the silent, stealthy approach of the stranger; and fetching his speaking-trumpet from the beckets in the companion-way, where it always hung in company with the telescope, he stepped aft to the taffrail and hailed—
“Ship ahoy!”
“Hillo!” was the response, in a tone of voice pitched so low that, though it was distinctly audible to those on board the Aurora, it would not penetrate the sluggish atmosphere to any great distance.
“What ship is that?” inquired George.
“His Britannic Majesty’s brig—” (name unintelligible). “What ship is that?”
“The Aurora, of London. Why are you out of your station, and without lights, sir? Is there anything wrong?”
“Yes,” was the reply, “but don’t hail any more; there are enemies at hand. I will sheer alongside you presently, and tell you what to do.”
“Enemies at hand, eh!” muttered George. “What can it mean, I wonder? And if there are enemies, by which, I suppose, they mean Frenchmen, in our neighbourhood, those man-o’-war fellows must have eyes like owls to be able to see them in the dark. Just step down into the cabin, if you please, Mr Ritson, and give the mate a call; I don’t half like this.”
In little more than a minute Mr Bowen was on deck and listening to George’s statement of what had already passed, and of his uneasiness. George had just finished speaking, when there was a sound as of a falling handspike, or something of the kind, on board the stranger, followed by a loud ejaculation of—
“Sacr-r-r-r-ré nom de—”