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“No, sir,” came from the sloop’s deck. “We’ll clear you all right.” “See that you do, then!” Then the sloop’s hull came into view again, as the craft headed out toward the open water beyond. “That’s the kind of a craft Jack would give a heap to be on,” thought Eph. “Queer that he should spend all his time on gasoline peanut-roasters when he’s so fond of whistling for a breeze behind canvas.”
This cruise we assisted, as the French say, in taking one of their privateers, the prize-money of which gave soap to the ship’s company for the next cruise; what other good we did I say not. At the expiration of another three months, His Majesty’s sloop’s anchors once more bit the mud in the Downs.
The course being narrow, the sloop was obliged to sail rather close to the fleet. “That’s no fisherman!” muttered Somers, watching, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. Presently the sloop’s hull was lost to Eph’s sight beyond the gunboat. Then the boy heard a voice from the “Hudson’s” deck roar out: “Look alive, you lubber! Do you want to foul our anchor chain?”
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