Rodney's wound was painful, but was not so serious as to hinder active service. He went about his duties with his arm slung in bandages; a little weak in body, but as stout of heart as ever, and with brighter hopes than he had for some time dared to cherish. The afternoon was well advanced when the lookout on the Emma reported an unusual movement in the Pixie fleet.
"What do you make it out?" said Rodney.
"They seem to be getting ready to weigh anchor!" answered the lookout. "And several of their boats have in tow a queer sort of craft that looks more like a snail shell than any sort of vessel I know."
"Hah! some Pixie trick, I warrant!" returned Rodney. "But we mustn't let them escape us this time. Ho there! Set the signal to weigh anchor."
"Aye, aye, Sir," was the hearty response from Mate Angel. "It is done, Sir."
"Now signal the fleet to prepare for action."
"Aye, aye, Sir. That is done too."
"Good. Now set the order to come to close quarters."
"Close quarters it is, Sir," soon responded the prompt mate.