"Pass the word for the crew of the forward port three-pounder, Mr. Staples! Stations! Cast loose and provide!"
The orders were repeated, and four gunners sprang to their places. In a twinkling the captain of the crew had removed the gun-cover and tompion and cast adrift the gun-lashings; Number Two had gone over all the mechanism of the mount and provided revolvers and ammunition for all four; Numbers Three and Four brought cartridges and swabs, and took positions in rear of the breech of the gun.
"Load!"
The breech was opened, a cartridge inserted, and the block swung back into place and clamped. The junk was now only about one thousand yards distant. The Osprey, closing up from the south, held a course at an acute angle with that of the fugitive, to head her off.
The best marksman of the gun-crew now stood at the breech, and, with his shoulder against the padded crutch, slowly and carefully brought the Chinaman within the sighting line.
"Drop a shot across her forefoot," ordered the commander.
"Commence firing!"
The gun roared, and a big splash just in front of the junk testified to the correct aim of the pointer, and at the same time spoke in a language that could not be misunderstood. The vessel veered round, spilling the wind out of her great, oddly-shaped sail, which hung flapping from its huge yard.
The Osprey had now forged up within a few times her own length and slowed down.
"Mr. Liddon," said Dave with energy, "you will take the starboard quarter-boat and board that vessel. Arm your crew with cutlasses and revolvers, and if her captain can understand English, tell him I'll blow him out of the water if he doesn't hand over my man."