"No—not at this season."
"Any zeels?"
"Seals—no."
"Then prenez-garde, messieurs."
"Which means, in plain English, sheer off, d—n your eyes!" growled the first speaker; but by this time we were close under her starboard counter.
"Sheer off, or it may be the worse for you!"
"What the devil are you lubbers about under the counter?" exclaimed another; "Baptiste, hand me a musket——"
"We have dropped an oar, and our boat has run foul of yours," replied Hartly; adding, in a whisper, "The gimlet, carpenter—quick, the gimlet!"
In less time than I have taken to write these last half-dozen lines, Hartly had screwed the long gimlet into the vessel's side, under her counter, and hooked on the bucket, through the iron ring which he had secured to its handle, and there it hung close to the rudder and stern-post. By the swift application of a single lucifer-match he fired the touch-paper that was to light the carefully-prepared combustibles, the gathering flame of which shot upward from the bucket, and began at once to lick and flicker on the newly-painted planking of the schooner.
"Shove off, and give way—for your lives, give way!" said Hartly, in a hoarse whisper.