"Slaver?" exclaimed Captain Avery. "Bless my soul! We've nothing to do with men-stealers. I don't want any such prize as that, even if it's an Englishman. I wouldn't take a slave cargo into port."
"Nor I, either," said the steersman. "We're not in that trade."
Nearer and nearer, now, the strange craft was drawing, from the opposite tack. The men below had heard the yell of Coco and the Manhattan's warwhoop, and were tumbling up on deck in search of information. Their comments were various as they heard the remarkable announcement.
"Not a doubt of it, Lyme," said Sam Prentice to the captain, after a whiff of the wind from the stranger. "They're slave thieves. I always heard tell that a slave-ship could smell worse'n anything else. I say we ought not to try to do anything with her. Let her go!"
"Of course we will," said the captain; "but we'll speak her. Here she comes."
In a few minutes more the two ships were within hailing distance.
"What brig's that?" asked Avery.
"Slaver Yara, Captain Liscomb. Congo River to Cuba," came back with all cheerfulness. "What schooner's that?"
"American privateer, Noank, Captain Avery. We don't want you. How many on board?"
"We've only lost about a third of 'em on the passage," came jauntily back from the Yara. "We shall land over two hundred good ones. First-rate luck! Last trip we lost more'n half by getting stuck in a calm. How's your luck? Are you taking anything worth while?"