"You three chaps keep below till I give the word," said Old Negus, addressing a purely imaginary crew.
"Ve is nine," announced the spokesman of the boat's crew with the air of one holding the winning ace.
"Keep off!" was Old Negus's only rejoinder. "Drat they coastguard chaps," he added in a lower tone. "Them's all asleep. Keep on signallin', boy."
"Can't much longer," replied Brandon, "The battery of my torch is running down. Look out!"
The warning was just in time, for the boat of the Marie-Celeste had edged nearer, sufficiently to enable the bowman to deliver a blow with a fifteen feet ash oar.
It missed the old fisherman by a few inches. Negus's reply was to hurl a stone, that landed with a dull thud. A yell of pain was ample evidence that the missile had struck one of the boat's crew.
The next instant the boat was alongside. Four or five men, some armed with knives, others with cudgels, leapt upon the foredeck of the Frolic.
A well-directed thrust with the boathook enabled Brandon to reduce the number by one. The fellow, wildly pawing the air, tumbled backwards, falling between the fishing smack and the boat.
Before Brandon could make another lunge a powerful hand grasped the boathook. Instantly the Patrol-leader dropped the stave, seized a hatchet, and with the back of the steel head dealt a sweeping blow at the legs of the fellow who had gained possession of the boathook.