At this point a sailor put his head in at the little cabin.
"If you please, sir, Mr. Babbage says we're off Minton Point, and waits for orders."
"Very well, Turley. Go on deck, Mr. Hardy, and take a run down Channel. Let me know what you think of the Fury's sailing powers; we've nothing but our speed to trust to if we happen to fall in with the enemy in force."
All feelings of disappointment vanished from Jack's mind immediately as he stepped on deck. The Fury was in all respects a model cutter. Jack had admired the beauty of her lines as she lay in harbor, sitting the water like a sea-bird, with every promise of speed in the graceful hull, the long tapering mast and the huge boom extending considerably beyond the stern. Now heeling slightly to a stiff sou'-sou'-westerly breeze, with her great spread of canvas she seemed to Jack like a sea-bird in flight. A stately Indiaman that had left port some time before was working to windward a mile ahead. In order to test the capacity of the Fury Jack brought her a few points nearer the wind, and found that he steadily overhauled the huge vessel. Before nightfall the Indiaman was nearly hull down, and Jack was satisfied that the Fury had the heels of most craft he was likely to meet on the coast.
Two small brass guns, one forward and one aft, comprised her whole armament. Jack could not help contrasting this with the forty huge guns of the Ariadne. The crew consisted of some five and twenty seamen and marines. Most of them had seen much service, and one and all wished they were with Nelson chasing the French instead of being engaged in what they considered the humdrum task of watching the coast. Jack privately thought it might turn out to be not so very humdrum after all. He soon made himself acquainted with the crew, and was rather attracted by a merry-eyed salt named Joe Turley, a handy man who seemed to live to poke fun at Babbage the bo'sun. Among the men that worthy was variously known as Cabbage, Artichoke, Brussels sprouts, Sparrow-grass, and Turnip-tops; he was rarely called by his own name, except to the officers, when he was always alluded to most respectfully as Mr. Babbage.
A fortnight passed away, and Jack, as well as every member of the crew, was growing very tired of the uneventful life. Every day was alike, save for the weather, and that varied little. The cutter cruised up and down the Channel between Weymouth and Portsmouth, putting in occasionally to communicate with the riding-officer and to take in provisions, but finding nothing of any importance to do. The smugglers seemed to be quiet; the only vessels sighted were British merchantmen passing up or down Channel under convoy, or fishing-smacks out from the English ports. The men grumbled at the lack of chances of obtaining prize money, and Jack was impatient of the inactivity to which he was condemned. It was all very well to keep the Fury spick and span, her deck as white as the sails, her brass rails polished to a dazzling brilliance; but he would have liked work a little less domestic—work for the two brass guns that Joe Turley caressed as though they were living creatures.
"Won't you venture over to the French side, sir?" Jack asked Lieutenant Blake one day. "We aren't doing any good hugging our own shore."
"No, I won't. I can't blockade a French port with a cutter of two guns. If we run too close to the French shore we might easily be snapped up, and for nothing at all. Besides, orders are orders. I've got mine as plain as a pikestaff, and I can't go beyond 'em."
Jack was disappointed, but clearly there was nothing to be said.
One evening the Fury was making toward Wynport. She had overhauled a suspicious looking brig passing down Channel, but found that she was a harmless Portuguese sailing in ballast.