“Not unless she is the smallest,” answered the purser, who was addicted to croaking.
“Then we shall have the satisfaction of retaking her and thrashing her captor into the bargain,” said Mr Handsel.
“But what if her captor is bigger than we are?” asked the purser.
“Thrash him notwithstanding,” said the first lieutenant, laughing.
“It is possible that more than two vessels were engaged,” remarked the captain. “We shall know, however, before long. Have the night-signals ready, Mr Handsel. We must take care not to fire into a friend.”
The excitement on board increased as the frigate, moving at the rate of two or three knots an hour, drew near the spot where it was expected that the strangers would be discovered. The men stood at their guns prepared to open the ports and run them out when the order should be given. The magazines were open and powder and shot passed up. The surgeon and his assistants were below in the cockpit, making their arrangements for the duties they might have to perform; looking to their instruments, their bandages and styptics, and rigging their amputation-table.
“How do you feel, Paul?” asked Dickenson of young Chandos. “If we could see the enemy I shouldn’t mind; but, for my part, I don’t like this sort of work in the dark, I confess.”
“I was thinking of home and my mother and sisters,” answered Chandos. “I used to long to be in a battle, and I should be sorry to miss it, but I wish it was over. I would rather have to look back at it than forward.”
“So would I, provided I hadn’t lost an arm or a leg or been killed outright,” said Dickenson, in a dolorous tone.
“I haven’t thought about being killed, and I hope that neither you nor I will be,” answered Chandos; adding, “I shouldn’t mind, perhaps, a bullet through my arm or leg for the honour and glory of the thing, and to talk about when we get home.”