"What! Are there two Furies? The only _Fury_ I know was the cutter that that fool Blake allowed to be captured. Didn’t they tell me she was carried into Boulogne?" "Yes, sir, but we retook her." "By George! I’m glad of it; a smart cutter, the fastest on the station. And you took a craft called the _Glorieuse_ too, did you? What’s your vessel, and who’s your captain, and why isn’t he here?" "If you please, sir—" "Answer my question, sir—a plain question and a plain answer." "My vessel’s the _Fury_, sir," replied Jack, "and it was the _Fury_ captured the _Glorieuse_, a thirty-gun brig." "What! that cockle-shell take a thirty-gun brig?" "Yes, sir, we took her by surprise, and—" "And who retook the _Fury_?" "Some threescore English seamen, sir; I was in command, and—" "You in command! Bless my soul, what are you talking about? What’s your name, sir?" "Jack Hardy, sir." "Why, why, didn’t Lieutenant Blake report you as missing? Haven’t I got his report—somewhere, hang me if I know where. Where’s Lieutenant Blake? Why didn’t he come and report all this himself?" "I’m sorry to say he’s a prisoner in France, sir. He was taken inland, and—" "Am I standing on my head or on my feet?" cried the peppery admiral. "What’s all this beating about the bush? Explain yourself, sir!" "Why don’t you give me a chance?" thought Jack; but Admiral Horniman’s impetuous manner was well known on the Portsmouth station; no finer sailor ever served his Majesty; and those who knew him knew what a sterling character underlay his rough exterior. He raised his glass now and emptied it at a draft; and Jack took advantage of the action to begin his story, using as few words as possible, and hurrying on when he saw the admiral preparing to interrupt. Somewhat to his surprise, he reached the end without misadventure. "Bless my soul! And you mean to tell me, Mr. Hardy, that you captured the _Glorieuse_ yourself?" "No, sir; I was bowled over; but the men fought splendidly, and Ben Babbage—" "Turnip-tops! I know him! Brother Sol on the brain! but a good seaman. Well, Mr. Hardy, you’ll write all that down—plain, mind you, so that I can read it, no finicking spidery scrawl for me, egad! Now run off and get a sawbones to look at that wound of yours, and take a few days’ leave ashore. The sooner you’re fit for duty the better. We’ll take charge of your prize." "Thank you, sir. But about the leave—if you don’t mind, I’d rather not take it at present." "What in thunder do you want to be at then?" "You know what happened at Luscombe, sir—at Congleton’s Folly?" "Yes—no; hang me! I remember Blake reported something. He broke into a tower, or something of that sort, and found nothing—wasn’t that it?—everything gone, lock, stock, and barrel."