"Send a boat in and see what he wants," said the manager; and ten minutes later Mike Connell was on board, telling his story to a highly interested group of listeners.
Within an hour after receiving her new passenger, the Broncho, under full head of steam, was several miles to the northward of Laughing Fish, and well out to sea, in hot pursuit of a small schooner. The latter was slipping easily along before the fresh morning breeze that had recently set in after a night of calm. The water rippled merrily past her flashing sides, and she was making some six miles an hour. At the same time the Broncho, pouring forth great clouds of soft-coal smoke and heaping the smooth water into double white-crested billows as she rushed through it, was doing two miles to her one, and would soon overtake her.
"Whatever can that bloomin' teakettle want of us?" growled the captain of the schooner as he blinked with half-closed eyes at his pursuer. "She ain't no revenue boat, as I can see. Tom, h'ist our ensign as a hint for 'em to keep away."
The sailor obeyed, and a minute later ran the crimson flag of Great Britain to the main peak, where it streamed out bravely in the freshening breeze.
"Got a flag aboard this boat, Captain Spillins?" asked Major Arkell as he watched the schooner from the Broncho's pilot-house.
"Yes, sir, two of 'em."
"Good. We'll see that fellow and go him one better. Set 'em both."
In consequence of this order the Stars and Stripes were quickly snapping defiantly from both the forward and after jack-staffs of the on-rushing tug.
"Sheer off, blast you, or you'll run us down!" bellowed the captain of the schooner as the tug ranged close abreast.
"Is that your man?" asked the manager, of Mike Connell.