"Light."
"Where are you bound?"
"Truro for Plymouth."
"All right. Heave us a line. I'll see your papers."
"Ay, ay," replied Trevorrick.
His ready brain was working. If things came to the worst, the Customs' launch could be stove in by the simple expedient of dropping a pig of iron into her. He might even take the crew prisoners; but, he reflected, there was no likelihood of obtaining a ransom for them. They would merely be useless mouths to feed.
"Ease down!" bawled the imperious voice.
"Ay, ay," responded Trevorrick, but made no move towards putting the order into execution.
"Stand-by!" he bawled, brandishing a coil of rope.
The bowman of the launch caught the flake of the coil and took a turn. Directly the rope tautened, Trevorrick cut it. The launch dropped astern, until under extra throttle she again ran alongside.