A succession of jerks announced that the anchor was obtaining a series of temporary and insecure holds. Then Brandon grasped the situation.
The anchor was ripping the drifter's nets.
"Come aft!" shouted Old Negus. "There'll be a tur'ble jerk when the hook brings up agen her trawl-beam."
"The fat's in the fire with a vengeance this time," thought Frank, as he leapt into the well. "I wonder what will happen now?"
He was not left long in doubt. Although the drifter was making a bare three knots owing to the drag of a fifty feet beam and a ton or more of nets, the sudden strain as the Frolic's anchor jammed against the trawl-beam well-nigh capsized Brandon.
Round swung the Frolic, towed by the craft that had so deliberately cut away Old Negus's gear.
"Belgian or Frenchie, that's what she be," declared the old fisherman. "Poachin' inside the three-mile limit. Now us knows why there bain't much fish on the Silverknoll Bank."
"What are we going to do now?" asked Brandon rather anxiously.
"Do?" repeated Old Negus. "Jus' hang on till daylight, if needs must. If they cut their trawl adrift then we'll collar it. Fair exchange it'll be. If not, they can tow us till they're fair fed up. Wish I could see 'er name."
"I've a torch in my haversack," announced Brandon. "Thought it might come in handy."