Next morning, at the same hour, they steamed out to sea again, intending to keep about twelve miles off the coast, so as to be able to command a broad expanse of water in every direction; but before they had got two miles from the anchorage, three prows were observed about four or five miles to seaward.
“That looks like the rascals,” observed the captain, as he surveyed them through the glass.
“Indeed,” said Mr Hazlit, who, rather pale and weak from his recent unwonted experiences, leaned in a helpless manner on the quarter-rails.
“Yes; they pull forty or fifty oars, double-banked,” returned the captain, wiping his glass carefully. “They’ve got heavy guns on board, no doubt. We shall have to protect our boiler.”
The gun-boat was so small that a portion of her steam-case was unavoidably exposed above deck. A shot into this would have been disastrous. Orders were therefore given to surround it with bags of coal, which was promptly done.
“And, one of you,” said the captain, turning to the man who chanced to be nearest him, “go into the cabin and bring up the sofa cushions; we shall want them to protect the legs of the men stationed on the poop.”
Rooney Machowl happened to be the man who received this order. He at once descended.
“By your lave, Miss,” he said, with a bashful air; “I’m sorry to ask a lady to git up, but it’s the capting’s orders—he wants the cushions.”
“By all means,” said Aileen, with a smile; “why does he want them?”
“Plaze, Miss, to protect our legs, savin’ yer presence.”