He might have parleyed with them, or bribed them to go away quietly, but this method did not appeal to his British spirit. He was alone. Old Boldrigg was sleeping profoundly, quite oblivious to the tocsin sounding over his head.
Springing ashore, Flemming rushed at his tormentors. They turned and fled incontinently, although several of them were bigger than Eric. He chased them for about fifty yards along the quay, and then returned to the Olivette.
But the retreat was only temporary. The moment Flemming regained the deck the gamins returned, the number considerably augmented, while a crowd of men engaged in unloading a schooner ceased their work to watch and enjoy the scene.
Flemming waited until the first missile of the renewed attack hurtled through the air, then he charged his assailants. Again the latter took to their heels, but Eric meant to see the business through this time.
Overtaking and ignoring the smaller and weaker of the boys, he held on until he collared a tall, hulking fellow, who was one of the ringleaders. Applying a very effective arm-lock, Flemming made his captive accompany him to the Olivette.
"Now I've found a hostage," thought Eric, as he deftly drew the lad's arms behind him and round the mast and lashed the wrists together. "They won't dare to hurl things on board now."
But he was mistaken. The gamins found increased delight in pelting their former leader. Perhaps they had a grudge against him. There he stood, yelling and bawling threats against his fellows until Flemming felt obliged to release him.
"'Spose I must grin and bear it until the others return," he soliloquized, as the boys renewed the bombardment.
Suddenly the gamins, uttering shouts of warning, took to their heels.
Looking to see what had caused the flight, Flemming saw a troop of French Scouts doubling along the quay. There were two patrols—about fourteen Scouts in all—but before them, the gamins, numbering between forty and fifty, simply melted away.