“Halt, there,” a voice called.
They were called one by one under the light, and sorted out to three boats then lying at the steps, from a French barque, an English ship and an American schooner.
“Will there be any more to-night?” an English sailor asked. “Shall we send the boat in again?”
“We do not know.”
“Well, if any more are to come off, dip your light there and I’ll send the boat in.”
“How?”
“Dip your light. Lower and hoist your light, to let me know you want the boat.”
“It is good.”
“Is it good?” the sailor muttered, as he shepherded his six down the steps to the boat. “You’re about as likely to do it as my Uncle Joe is to have kittens.”
Four ordinary seamen in the boat pulled them clear of the Mole into the harbour, towards the sailing-ship anchorage. The firing-parties were still firing in the town. Away beyond the Farola, a house which had been fired began to burn up brightly. “That’s just about where the Piranhas’ house is,” Hi thought. “They’ve killed the Piranhas, too.”