The larger vessel's rigging we could see was badly mauled, the smaller ship
dodged round and round her, and off and on, plugging her as fast as the
guns could be loaded and fired.

"That's no merchantman," said old Martin. "A French Navy ship--a
corvette--about fifteen guns a-side maybe, and t'other's an English gun
brig; making rare game of her she is too. Minds me of a dog and a bull."

"Maybe the old man'll take a hand just for practice."

And John Ozanne was quite willing. We were ordered to quarters, and ran in,
with our colours up, prepared to take our share. But the commander of the
brig had his own ideas on that matter, strong ones too, and he intimated
them in the most unmistakable way by a shot across our bows, as a hint to
us to mind our own business and leave him to his.

A hoarse laugh and a ringing cheer went up from the _Swallow_ at this truly
bull-dog spirit, and we drew off and lay-to to watch the result.

The Frenchman was fully three times the size of his plucky little
antagonist, but the Englishman as usual had the advantage in seamanship. He
had managed to cripple his enemy early in the fight, and now had it all his
own way. We watched till the Frenchman's colours came down, then gave the
victors another hearty cheer, and went on our way to seek fighting of our
own.

For three days we never sighted a sail. We had turned south towards the
Bay, and were beginning to doubt our luck, when, on the fourth day, a stiff
westerly gale forced us to bare poles. During the night it waxed stronger