That was precisely what the captain of the Santa Teresa had decided not to do, if he could help it. The moment he was again on board of his own ship, he took the helm himself, and he made as wide a sheer easterly as he could. Owing to the channel and the position of the Tigress, however, the best he could do was to escape miscellaneous conversation. He could not quite avoid coming within speaking-trumpet range. The hoarse hail of the British lieutenant reached him clearly enough.
"Ship ahoy! What ship's that?"
"Santa Teresa. Barcelona to Porto Rico. Passengers and cargo. What ship's that?"
"His Britannic Majesty's Tigress, Captain Frobisher," replied Mackenzie. "You've seen rough weather, eh? One o' your sticks gone?"
"Knocked out," returned Velasquez. "We were mauled by a buccaneer. We got away from him."
"Where did you leave the American?" was the lieutenant's next question, made as confidently as if he had actually seen the Noank. "What is she, anyhow?"
The Spanish captain was silent for a moment in utter astonishment. How could the Englishman have known anything about it? His very surprise, however, defeated his prudence, and he answered:—
"Heavy schooner, bound in. She won't try it, now you are here."
"All right," came cheerily back; "I saw you send her a pilot. I'll report you."
"Caramba!" shouted Velasquez, in sudden anger. "Report! I hope your American rebels will beat you on land and sea! They have my good will, with all my heart!"