By this time the crew of the drifter had made the disconcerting discovery that the insignificant English fishing boat whose nets they had wantonly cut was now playing havoc with their gear.
A volley of abuse was directed upon the Frolic, together with a command to "Cut ze hawsair or ve sink you."
The beam of Brandon's torch played upon the drifter. On her counter, showing up distinctly in the bright light, were the words, "Marie-Celeste, Ostende." Over the taffrail were half a dozen men gesticulating and shouting.
"Signal ashore," said Old Negus. "P'raps coastguards over agin Broken Point'll spot it."
Brandon needed no second bidding. Rapidly he Morsed a message stating the plight of the Frolic, and requesting assistance.
The Belgians broke into another and more vigorous howl of anger at seeing the dots and dashes. Old Negus laughed as light-heartedly as a boy.
"They dursn't go astern," he observed. "'Fraid of fouling their propeller, they be. An' they don't want to cut adrift their gear. We've got 'em fixed, boy."
"I hope so," agreed Brandon, fired by the enthusiasm and doggedness of his companion.
The drifter's next manoeuvre was to put her helm hard a-port. Hitherto she had been standing in towards the land and was already within a mile and a half of Broken Point. Unless she swung round through at least eight or ten points she would soon be aground in shoal water.
But Old Negus had anticipated this change. Directly the Belgian ported helm he ported, with the result that the Frolic took a wide sheer to starboard.