All that day the young captain of the _Tonneraire_ kept his fleet well together. Not an easy task, for although the wind was by no means high, and was moreover favourable, being north-east by east--the course steered about north-west, the convoy bearing up for Halifax and the Gulf of St. Lawrence--still the sailing powers of the vessels varied considerably. The strength of an iron chain equals the strength of its weakest link, and the speed of a fleet of merchantmen is measured by that of its slowest sailer. While at San Miguel, Jack had tried to impress this upon the minds of his various skippers. He held a meeting of these on board a large full-rigged ship, and told them their motto must be, "Keep together," as the danger of an attack was imminent. Slow sailers must carry stun'-sails when they found themselves getting behind, while the fast must take in sail. They admitted this. "It is as plain as the nose on my face," said one intelligent skipper, who had a huge red bulbous proboscis you could have almost seen in the dark. "We've got to play up to you, Captain Mackenzie, just as the small fry plays up to a great hactor on the stage." This was all very well, but then they did not do it, so that the rate of speed was slow; ships and barques having to haul their fore or main yards aback at times to wait for the lazy brigs who either couldn't or wouldn't set stun'-sails. And at eventide, while the sun was going in a lacework of golden cloud, and looking so red that he appeared to be ashamed of the fleet, the vessels were scattered all over three square miles, and Jack Mackenzie, not now in the best of tempers, had to collect them as a collie pens his sheep. It was dark enough after the somewhat brief twilight had given place to light--to light and to _lights_, for signal-lanterns hung aloft on every ship; so all appeared safe and snug enough. But what had become of the Frenchman? He had not been seen all day. Was it indeed but a phantom that had been seen in the moon's bright wake? A good watch was kept both 'low and aloft; and Jack went down to dinner at the sound of the bugle. As he passed near the midshipmen's berth, quite a buzz of happy voices issued therefrom. Jack paused for a few seconds to listen. It was not so very long since he himself had been a middy. No responsibility had he then, any more than rested on any of these bright young hearts at that moment. How they laughed and chaffed and talked, to be sure! Interspersed in the hubbub were now and then snatches of merry song, and now and then the notes of a somewhat squeaky and asthmatical violin, invariably followed by some one shouting, "Stop that awful fiddle!" "Hit 'im in the eye with a bit o' biscuit!" or "Grease his bow!" Then a deeper bass voice, evidently Scotch, and just as evidently a junior surgeon's, saying, "Let the laddie practise.--Fiddle away, my boy; I'll thrash all hands if they meddle with ye."