There had been more than a little surprise on board King George's fine frigate Clyde, of thirty-six guns. There had been a group of seaman-like officers upon her quarter-deck at about the time she was discovered by Up-na-tan. Marine glasses were at work in the hands of more than one of those gentlemen, and the express reason for it appeared in their conversation.
The Clyde was a cruiser somewhat noted for her speed. She had been of the convoy of the fleet through which the Noank had so cunningly worked her way, and had been at once detailed to chase the saucy privateer. This was decidedly pleasanter than guarding slow merchantmen, and the frigate's commander had congratulated himself heartily.
"If we don't strike her, we may pick up something else," he had remarked, adding: "I think I can make out the course she's most likely to take. Two to one, she's bound for the Havana, to harry our West India trade. We'll keep a sharp lookout."
So he did, and he had been rewarded even sooner than he had expected.
"Right under our noses," he had said, when the discovery of the schooner was announced. "We can outsail her."
"Captain!" interrupted his next in command, excitedly. "If she isn't taking in sail! What can that mean?"
"She may take us for something else," said the captain. "It's a fine breeze. She couldn't think of fighting us."
"Not a bit of it," said the officer; but his commander was an old, experienced sea-captain, and the queer conduct of his intended prize set him to thinking.
He walked up and down the deck during about half a minute, and then he began to look up curiously at the sky.
"That's it!" he shouted, his whole manner changing suddenly. "The Yankees are right! All hands! Shorten sail!"