"Na-a-a-a-y!" growled Hezz. "She's only fishing."
"How do you know? She's a smuggler, and there'll be a fight. Let's row out and see."
But in obedience to the summons the long low vessel glided slowly round till her brown sails began to shiver and flap, and as the boys watched they saw the cutter run pretty close up, and a small boat was lowered and rowed across.
"They're French, and cowards," cried Lance, who was deeply interested. "They've surrendered without striking a blow."
"Arn't got nothing to strike blows with," croaked Hezz sulkily. "Didn't I tell you she was a fishing-boat?"
"Oh, yes; but I know what fishing-boats catch sometimes, Master Hezz," said Lance, laughing, his companion looking at him curiously the while—"brandy snappers, 'bacco biters, and lace-fins, Hezz. But they're French cowards, or they'd have made a run of it. I say, they'll make her a prize, and take her into port. Where will they take her—Plymouth or Falmouth?"
"Nowheres. They'll let her go."
The lads sat watching till all at once in the distance they saw the little boat row back, and the sails of the chasse-marée began to fill.
"Who's right now?" said Hezz, laughing.