As he spoke, the fog once more opened a little.
“And, what do you say to yonder craft?” continued the skipper.
The old man’s right eye surveyed her intently before he answered—
“I thought I knowed her, sir. As sure as we’re alive she’s the Polly, with Jan Johnson on board.”
How he arrived at the latter conclusion we did not stop to consider. The words had an electric effect on board.
“You are right, Davis—you are right!” exclaimed our commander; then, in a tone of vexation, “And we have only one boat to chase her. If there comes a breeze, that fellow will sneak alongshore, and get out of our way. He calculated on being able to do so when he remained there, and no doubt has information that the revenue boats belonging to the station are sent off in other directions.”
Every glass was now turned towards the direction where the smuggler was seen; for you must remember the mist quickly again hid her from us. Our skipper walked over to where the carpenter was employed in putting the boat to rights; but soon saw that there was a good day’s work or more before she could be made to swim.
“It will never do to let that fellow—escape us!” he exclaimed briskly. “Mr Robertson,” addressing his senior officer, a passed midshipman—an oldster in every sense of the word I then thought him,—“pipe the gig’s crew away, with two extra hands, and let them all be fully armed. Do you take charge of the ship; and if a breeze gets up, press every stitch of canvas on her, and stand after the lugger. That fellow may give us some work; and I intend to go myself.”
Having given these orders, he dived into his cabin, and quickly reappeared, with his cocked hat on and his sword by his side.
I belonged to the gig.