"If they're looking for money, they'll be almighty disappointed," said the Skipper in a low tone to his niece and myself. "I took all there was."
Then in an undertone, and with that rashness of statement that sometimes we live to regret, "I wish I could strike a flint in that magazine. What was that, Mr. Jones?"
We saw a puff of smoke out at sea, and some moments later a report.
"Why should the British attack us, Uncle?" asked Cynthia. "I thought we were at peace now."
I shook my head at the Skipper.
"Don't know as they have," answered the old man for want of a better explanation.
Cynthia jumped from her seat and ran back to a slight ascent which rose above the beach. To the top of this she climbed, and, shadowing those wondrous eyes with her hand, gazed out to sea.
"It's another vessel! An American, I am sure! Yes, I can see the flag; probably a man-of-war. Regular officers, of course. They won't know how to spell R-U-N—Run!"
"Did you hear me tell you to stop sassin' me a while back? 'Twas the best we could do. Some one got us off our course on purpose. They tell me some one's got a Haïtien wife down here."
At these words Cynthia, who at this time seemed to live to make me miserable, surveyed me with unconcealed scorn.