pannikin rolled down the inclined plane, rattling and banging. From
above came the slapping of canvas and the quivering rat-tat-tat of the
after leech of the loosely stretched foresail. Then the mate's voice
sang down the hatch, "All hands on deck and make sail!"

Never had such summons been answered with more enthusiasm. The calm had
broken. The wind had come which was to carry them south into safety.
With a wild cheer all sprang on deck. Working with mad haste, they flung
out topsails, flying jibs and stay-sails. As they worked, the fog-bank
lifted and the black vault of heaven, bespangled with the old familiar
stars, rushed into view. When all was ship-shape, the _Mary Thomas_
was lying gallantly over on her side to a beam wind and plunging ahead
due south.

"Steamer's lights ahead on the port bow, sir!" cried the lookout from
his station on the forecastle-head. There was excitement in the man's
voice.

The captain sent Bub below for his night-glasses. Everybody crowded to
the lee-rail to gaze at the suspicious stranger, which already began to
loom up vague and indistinct. In those unfrequented waters the chance
was one in a thousand that it could be anything else than a Russian
patrol. The captain was still anxiously gazing through the glasses, when
a flash of flame left the stranger's side, followed by the loud report
of a cannon. The worst fears were confirmed. It was a patrol, evidently
firing across the bows of the _Mary Thomas_ in order to make her
heave to.

"Hard down with your helm!" the captain commanded the steers-man, all
the life gone out of his voice. Then to the crew, "Back over the jib and