The lean lieutenant craned his neck and whispered to Smeaton, the second, while officers and men came popping up from below and clustered along the weather-rail, shading their eyes with their hands--for the tropical sun was already clear of the palm trees.

The strange brig lay at anchor in the throat of a curving estuary, and it was already obvious that she could not get out without passing under the guns of the frigate.
A long, rocky point to the north of her held her in.
"Keep her as she goes, Mr.Wharton," said the captain.

"Hardly worth while our clearing for action, Mr.Smeaton, but the men can stand by the guns in case she tries to pass us.

Cast loose the bow-chasers and send the small-arm men to the forecastle." A British crew went to its quarters in those days with the quiet serenity of men on their daily routine.

In a few minutes, without fuss or sound, the sailors were knotted round their guns, the marines were drawn up and leaning on their muskets, and the frigate's bowsprit pointed straight for her little victim.
"Is it the _Slapping Sal_, sir ?" "I have no doubt of it, Mr.Wharton." "They don't seem to like the look of us, sir.