“Below there,” called out the mate.
“What’s wanting, sir?—what’s wanting, sir?” answered Spike; “let’s know at once.”
“Have you heard the guns, Capt. Spike?”
“Ay, ay, every grumbler of them. They’ve done no mischief, I trust, Mr. Mulford?”
“None as yet, sir; though the last shot, and it was a heavy fellow, passed just above the schooner’s deck. I’ve the topsail sheeted home and hoisted, and it’s that which has set them at work. If I clewed up again, I dare say they’d not fire another gun.”
“Clew up nothing, sir, but see all clear for casting off and making sail through the South Pass. What do you say, Ben, are you ready for a drag?”
“All ready, sir,” answered the boatswain, once more coming up to breathe. “Now for it, sir; a steady pull, and a pull all together.”
They did pull, but the hitch slipped, and both went down beneath the water. In a moment they were up again, puffing a little, and swearing a great deal. Just then another gun, and a clatter above their heads, brought them to a stand.
“What means that, Mr. Mulford?” demanded Spike, a good deal startled.
“It means that the sloop-of-war has shot away the head of this schooner’s foremast, sir, and that the shot has chipp’d a small piece out of the heel of our maintop-mast—that’s all.”