still, and the little _Swallow_ proved herself well. Next morning a long
line of great ships went gallantly past us over the roaring seas,
shepherded by two stately frigates,--an East Indian convoy homeward bound.
Late that day, the fifth of our cruising, we raised the topmasts of a large
ship and made for her hopefully.

"A merchantman," said Martin Cohu disgustedly, "and English or I'm a
Dutchman. One of the convoy lagged behind. No pickings for us this time,
my lads."

But there was more there than he expected.

There was always the chance of her having been captured by the French, in
which case her recapture would bring some little grist to our mill, and so
we crowded sail for her. And, as we drew nearer, it was evident, from the
talk among John Ozanne and his mates, that they could see more through
their glasses than we could with our eyes.

"Guyabble!" cried old Martin at last. "There's another ship hitched on to
her far side. I can see her masts. Now, what's this? A privateer as like as
no, and we'll have our bite yet, maybe."

And before long we could all make out the thin masts of a smaller vessel
between the flapping canvas of the larger. John Ozanne ordered us to
quarters, and got ready for a fight. He gave us a hearty word or two, since
every man likes to know what's in the wind.

"There's a schooner behind yonder Indiaman, my lads, and it's as likely as
not she's been captured. If so we'll do our best to get her back, for old
England's sake, and our own, and just to spite the Frenchman. If the