Thirty seconds later the vessel—a large steam drifter cut the wake of the Frolic at less than twenty feet from the latter's transom. There was a sudden jerk. The rope of the otter trawl parted as the vessel's stern fouled the nets. A chorus of mocking laughter came from the drifter's decks.
CHAPTER XVI
CATCHING A TARTAR!
"The hound!" ejaculated Old Negus angrily, as he made a jump for the Frolic's tiller. "Furriners they be poachers. Up for'ard, lad, and when I gives the word, let go the anchor."
Unable to realise the meaning of the skipper's order Brandon clambered on to the foredeck. Steadying himself by the forestay with one hand he lifted the anchor, already stocked, with the other.
Then he waited, hanging on like grim death as the Frolic pitched and plunged in the bow-wave of the steamer.
Putting the helm hard down Old Negus threw the Frolic into the wind. Relieved of the drag of the trawl she answered her helm so readily that she cut the drifter's track close under the latter's counter.
"Let go!" yelled Old Negus.
Splash went the anchor. Fathom after fathom of chain ran out until Brandon got the word to belay.