Jack mentally anathematized brother Sol, who must have been a very Job's comforter. The outlook was black enough. Visions of a French prison again rose before him—if indeed prison should be his lot, for the French, if they captured him, might deal summarily with him in revenge for the men they had lost.
Babbage sat down on the deck and began to sharpen his cutlass.
"A nice little bit of arm-work coming, sir," he said cheerfully. "In course we'll fight 'em?"
Jack shook his head.
"That's the last thing I should think of doing—at present."
"Well, sir, she's coming on at a spanking rate, and if we're going to run, the sooner the better—meaning no offense, sir."
"We must either keep her closer to the wind, and hope to pass without notice, or put the helm up and run for it. We'd have a bare chance of outsailing her then."
"Yes, sir, and she'd give us her broadside fust and foller it up with her stern-chasers. She'd blow us out of the water, as sure as eggs is eggs, when they bean't pickles."
Jack stood for a few moments, gloomily pondering this desperate case. All at once his face brightened.
"I say, Babbage, we'll fight her."