Over near St. Helen's Point a King's ship was making her way down the
channel, while a single large brig was tacking about a quarter of a mile
or less from where we lay. So near were we that we could catch a
glimpse of the figures upon her deck as she heeled over to the breeze,
and could bear the creaking of her yards and the flapping of her
weather-stained canvas as she prepared to go about.

'Look ye, Micah,' said my companion, looking up from his fishing-line.
'That is a most weak-minded ship--a ship which will make no way in the
world. See how she hangs in the wind, neither keeping on her course nor
tacking. She is a trimmer of the seas--the Lord Halifax of the ocean.'

'Why, there is something amiss with her,' I replied, staring across with
hand-shaded eyes. 'She yaws about as though there were no one at the
helm. Her main-yard goes aback! Now it is forward again! The folk on
her deck seem to me to be either fighting or dancing. Up with the
anchor, Reuben, and let us pull to her.'

'Up with the anchor and let us get out of her way,' he answered, still
gazing at the stranger. 'Why will you ever run that meddlesome head of
yours into danger's way? She flies Dutch colours, but who can say
whence she really comes? A pretty thing if we were snapped up by a
buccaneer and sold in the Plantations!'

'A buccaneer in the Solent!' cried I derisively. 'We shall be seeing
the black flag in Emsworth Creek next. But hark! What is that?'

The crack of a musket sounded from aboard the brig. Then came a
moment's silence and another musket shot rang out, followed by a chorus
of shouts and cries. Simultaneously the yards swung round into