Once more the boat-steerer's tongue was set awagging. It was a race now down the two sides of a triangle; a fair race and a grand one.
"Every devil's imp of you pull! No talking; lay back to it! Now or never!" yelled the steerer.
The heavy English cutter, with her eight men at the oars, had caught the fever too, and the five rowers in the Yankee boat had work cut out for them. The midshipman was now standing up, balancing himself easily, with his legs spread wide apart.
"We'll have that man, my lads!" he shrieked. "Only think he's ours, and there's no mistake, he will be ours! Give way, give way! Now we have him!"
The man could now plainly be seen, clinging to the top of the chicken coop.
"It's Brant, of the starboard watch, sir," said the steersman, leaning over. "Harkee, he sees us."
It appeared as if both boats would arrive at the same moment, when suddenly a most surprising thing occurred. The man waved his hand, and leaving the small but buoyant raft that had supported him, he plunged head first into the water and struck out for the whaleboat hand over hand. The bow oar leaned over and caught him by the back of the shirt. A quick heave, and he was landed between the thwarts.
"'Now we have him, lads!'"
"I hated to spoil a good race, messmates," he panted, "or I'd come off to you before."