Softly Ethan descended the companion ladder and reached the cabin door. He paused a moment listening, and heard one of the men say,
“I tell you, Blake, it is growing desperate. British shipping is in the greatest danger. That rascal Paul Jones is a menace to the entire coast. The Drake is out after him, and I hope she comes up with him soon.”
“You may be correct,” said the second voice, “but my opinion, Captain Spencer, is that there is not a Yankee nearer to us this minute than the coast of France.”
ETHAN CARLYLE STOOD BEFORE THEM
The door opened at that exact moment, and the stalwart form of Ethan Carlyle stood before them, his pistol pointed at their heads and his hanger ready in his hand.
“You are wrong in that, sir,” remarked the lad coolly; “for here is one at your side.”
“What does this mean?” exclaimed Captain Spencer, leaping up.
“It means that you are my prisoners,” observed Ethan, in an even tone. “Sit down and don’t become excited. It will do no good.”
“Draw, Blake,” roared the schooner’s captain, as he flashed out his blade. But he had scarcely lifted it when the sword of the young American swept downward like a flash and knocked it from his hand; then a blow from the flat of the weapon sent him back against the cabin wall.