‘See here, Wilf,’ said I: ‘suppose we let slip a blank shot at her out of that eighteen-pounder yonder? The dirty herd of scow-bankers may take us to be a man of war. And another idea on top of this!’ cried I, bursting into a laugh. ‘Is there anything black aboard that we can fly at the masthead? It should prove a warrant of our honesty that must puzzle them gloriously.’ ‘Would a black shawl do, Mr. Monson?’ said Miss Jennings. ‘The very thing,’ said I, ‘if it’s big enough.’ She immediately went below. ‘I think a blank shot’s a first-class idea,’ exclaimed Finn, ‘but as to a black flag----’ and he cocked his eye dubiously at the masthead, whilst his face visibly lengthened. ‘Why a _black_ flag, Charles?’ cried Wilfrid. ‘Why, my dear Wilf,--the pirate’s bunting, you know. The rogues may take us for a picaroon--no telling the persuasive influence of a black banner upon the nerves of such gentry.’ ‘Noble! noble!’ shouted Wilfrid, slapping his leg: ‘frighten them, Finn, frighten them. Why, man, they can’t be _all_ fools, and some of them at least will very well know that that ensign up there,’ pointing to the commercial flag at our peak, ‘is not her Britannic Majesty’s red cross. But a black flag--oh, yes, by all means if we can but muster such a thing. And get that gun loaded, will ye, Finn? get it done at once, I say.’ The skipper walked hurriedly forward as Miss Laura arrived with a black cashmere or crape shawl--I do not recollect the material. We held it open between us. ‘The very thing,’ I cried, and full of excitement--for here was something genuine in the way of an incident to break in upon the monotony of a sea trip--I bent the shawl on to the signal halliards that led from the main-topmast head and sent it aloft in a little ball, ready to break when the gun should be fired. Meanwhile all was bustle forwards. It is a question whether Jack does not love firing off a cannon even better than beating a drum. Miss Jennings walked right aft as far as she could go, holding her fingers in readiness for her ears and saying to me as she passed that sudden noises frightened her. Wilfrid stood alongside of me, glancing with a boyish expression of excitement and expectation from the seamen congregated round the gun to the little black ball at the masthead. The yacht was slowly overhauling the brig, but almost imperceptibly. The boat maintained an equidistance betwixt us and was struggling, wabbling, and splashing fair in a line with our cutwater and the lee-quarter of the Portuguese craft. The two rowers exhibited no signs of exhaustion, though I expected every minute to find one or both of them give up and disappear, dead beaten, in the bottom of their tub. ‘All ready forward, sir,’ shouted Finn; ‘will your honour give us the signal when to fire?’ As he sung out the group of seamen hustled backwards from the gun and thinned into meagre lines of spectators at a safe distance. ‘Fire!’ bawled Wilfrid.