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"But will Mr Lawrence make for Rio," said Captain Weaver, "when he understands by the Aurora chasing that you have found out his port of destination?" Maurice's white face slowly expanded in a grin. He glanced in the direction of his mother, then held out his hand to the crow with a lowspoken, "Come Croaker, ol' feller." "Oh, is that so? Well, my smooth friend, you're liable to learn that my jurisdiction extends further than you think. Now see here, Jacobs. You know—and I know—that I have enough on you already to put you away where you'll do little harm for several years to come. Do you want me to do it?".

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The Admiral made his son welcome with unusual warmth. He was a man of rough appearance whose hand had been in the tar-bucket for most of his life—a hard, reserved man, shy, so ignorant that he read with difficulty, and wrote his name as painfully as a hand tortured with gout inscribes with the pen. It was two bells in the afternoon watch—one o'clock—at which hour the frigate and the schooner had closed each other. By this time the ship ahead had been raised to a full sight of her hull. But long before this she had been made out as the Minorca, by that unmistakable signal of her character—the fore-and-aft canvas on her mizzen- and top-masts. The breeze was steady. All three ships heeled to it. The frigate foamed bending under studding sails, the schooner under all the canvas she could set, and the barque leaned under the heavy strain of every cloth she carried. "You forget," said Captain Acton, "that Mr Eagle and my crew are on board, and they will have something to say in response to Mr Lawrence's orders.".