The gig bounded through the waters like a thing of life; the creaming waters were dashed from her sharp bow; the men pulled with skill and good will, and Tom noted, as he stood in the bow, that they gained upon the British boat. The pinnace, under Mr. Johnson, had grappled with the galley on the other side, and had not cleared the wreck so quickly. But she now was bounding after the gig under the impulse of her crew’s brawny arms. “They are going to reach safety under the frigate’s guns before we overhaul them,” said Captain Deering. “I’m afraid it’s hopeless, lad.” “No, no,” cried Tom, desperately; “don’t give up the chase. I’ll reduce their speed a trifle.” He picked up his rifle as he spoke, placed it to his shoulder, ran his eye along the barrel and pulled the trigger. A cry came from the flying boat; one of the oarsmen dropped his sweep and tumbled into the bottom. This, of course, caused much confusion; the wounded man was dragged forward and another man took his place. But the gig of the Defence had made a clear gain upon them of fifty yards. “Good lad!” cried the captain. “Try it again.” Tom did not stop to reload his rifle, but picked up one belonging to one of his companions. He leveled the piece with great care. Once more the shot rang out, and once more an oarsman fell. The British officers in the stern now began firing, but as they did not take careful aim their shots did no harm. By this time, however, those on board the frigate had received the alarm; lanterns flashed upon her decks and a drum rolled sullenly. The boat containing the prisoners was almost within range of her guns when the gig of the Defence overhauled her. They grappled instantly and the fight raged with the utmost fury. Without a moment’s hesitation Tom, followed by Cole, sprang into the enemy’s boat among the cutlasses and pistols of the British tars. “Father,” he cried, “I am here! I have come to save you.” But he could not pause to look about, for the enemy had flown at him with great determination. Shrieks of pain and shouts of rage mingled with the clash of steel and the spiteful explosions of the firearms. But in the heat of the conflict the pinnace with Mr. Johnson and his crew arrived, and in a very few moments the British sailors were forced to surrender their arms. “Now,” cried Tom, his tones full of joy, “the prisoners.” A number of white, worn-looking patriots were helped into the gig. Tom’s heart sank when he looked at them. His father was not among them! “Are these all the prisoners?” he cried, addressing one of the white-faced men who sat in the stern of the Defence’s gig. “Was there not another named Deering?” “I do not know,” returned the man. Tom, with despair in his eyes turned to the British officers in the other boat. With one accord they burst into a laugh. “Ah!” exclaimed one; “so it was he that you were after. Well, you’ve failed, for you attacked the wrong boat.”