Four or five days after this providential suppression of the mutiny, as I was walking the deck, having volunteered to return to my duty, the look-out at the mast-head hailed that a sail was in sight. The usual questions were asked, and the master, going aloft to examine her, pronounced her to be, without doubt, a line-of-battle ship. It was not quite so easy to determine whether she was an enemy or a friend. If the former, we might have another battle to fight, for Captain Collyer was not the man to yield without one. Having the prize in tow, we were making all sail on our homeward course. On came the stranger. She was on our weather quarter, and soon showed us that she sailed faster than we did. Captain Collyer now hailed Mr Lukyn, who commanded the prize, to say that he intended to fight the line-of-battle ship to the last, and then explained to him how he intended to manage. "With all my heart, sir," answered Mr Lukyn, and the crew of the prize gave a loud cheer to show that they were ready. The drum beat to quarters, and not only did all that were well assemble, but even all the sick and wounded who could move crawled up on deck to help man the guns. Though I should not have been sorry to have got home without more fighting, I was as ready as any one, and hoped that I should not get another wound, as I was quite content with the one I had to exhibit. A guard was kept over the prisoners, who were told that they would be shot down without mercy if they made any disturbance, and then in grim silence we stood ready for the fight. The stranger came on, but at length she began to make signals, and we signalled in return, and then we soon found out that she was not an enemy, but a friend. She proved to be the Hercules, 74, and as she was homeward-bound, her captain said that he would keep us company, to help fight any enemy which might appear. We ran on for two days, when the Hercules made the signal of "fleet to the south-east," and soon afterwards that several ships had borne up in chase. We next learned that they were enemies. We had still the prize in tow. Every stitch of canvas alow and aloft which the ship could carry was packed on her. It was an anxious time. To lose our gallantly won prize, and perhaps to be carried off to a French prison, were not pleasant anticipations. I asked Mr Johnson what he thought about the matter. "Why, Mr Merry, look you, I never anticipate evil," he answered, with an expression of countenance very different to what he put on when telling his wonderful yarns. "Time enough when it comes. `There's many a slip between the cup and the lip,' as you've heard say, and you'll find it through life. The Frenchmen out there think that they are going to gulp us down, but they may find that they are mistaken."