This was all very nice in theory, but the fire-junks were floated down so silently, that no one saw them until they were almost fast to the bows. When the officer of the watch ordered the suspended anchor to be cut adrift, it was found to be foul and would not start, and Woodward getting on deck, saw at a glance that the ship would be lost if no one could manage to cut the obstruction to their only means of safety. However, he did not show what he felt, but gave his orders in a cool and deliberate manner. "Pay out the cable, and stand by to slip the anchor." "Aye, aye, sir," replied the boatswain's mate of the watch. The fire-junks hung for a few moments upon his bows, but being slack water, did not drop upon her; and the Stinger having steam up, "went astern" slowly, leaving the Chinese engines of destruction moored by the lines by which they had been towed down upon the man-of-war. As the ship receded from their fiery contact the flames ran along her bowsprit and caught the bulwarks, but a well-directed stream of water from her pumps soon extinguished that, and the further burning of the bowsprit and projecting spars was prevented. The Chinese who were managing the attack seeing the Stinger move from her anchorage slacked their tow-lines, and Woodward saw the junks were coming down upon him again. "Who'll volunteer to cut away that spare anchor when the junks are again under the bows?" "I will, sir," cried Tom Clare, who, dressed in a blanket frock and trousers, looked more like an Esquimaux than a sailor. "The fire won't hurt this rig." "Up you get, then; the fire won't touch you if you're smart, as the wind has fallen, and is drawing aft. The tricing line has fouled just abaft the foretopmast stay. Don't cut until I give the order." Luckily the stays were made of corrugated iron wire, and Clare knew if he could feel those he was safe, even though the smoke blinded him. He was determined to save the ship; and, axe in hand, mounted the head grating, and running out upon the bowsprit, calmly waited for the fire-junks to drop down near enough for the anchor to plump aboard them. As he stood there, with the red gleam of the burning junks showing every line in his face, he looked the handsome Tom Clare of former days; and knowing how perilous his position was, many of the crew wished almost any other man of their number there instead of him. "They're coming, Clare. Stand by, and let them get close enough. I'll give you orders when to cut." "Aye, aye, sir," quietly replied Tom.