"Ve gif seven poun'," persisted the man in a wheedling voice. "An' a leetle cask of ze rum." Still no answer. "A ver' big, goot cask of ze rum, zen," continued the Belgian. "Ve hafe eet in ze boat, see. Ver' goot rum an' seven poun'." The dogged silence on the part of the _Frolic's_ crew rather puzzled the Belgians. They took advantage of the delay to paddle a few strokes until their boat was within ten yards of the fishing smack's quarter. Then Old Negus broke the silence. "Sheer off!" he shouted. "Or we'll stave in your boat." "Vat you mean--stave in, eh?" demanded the spokesman. "You three chaps keep below till I give the word," said Old Negus, addressing a purely imaginary crew. "Ve is nine," announced the spokesman of the boat's crew with the air of one holding the winning ace. "Keep off!" was Old Negus's only rejoinder. "Drat they coastguard chaps," he added in a lower tone. "Them's all asleep. Keep on signallin', boy." "Can't much longer," replied Brandon, "The battery of my torch is running down. Look out!" The warning was just in time, for the boat of the _Marie-Celeste_ had edged nearer, sufficiently to enable the bowman to deliver a blow with a fifteen feet ash oar. It missed the old fisherman by a few inches. Negus's reply was to hurl a stone, that landed with a dull thud. A yell of pain was ample evidence that the missile had struck one of the boat's crew. The next instant the boat was alongside. Four or five men, some armed with knives, others with cudgels, leapt upon the foredeck of the _Frolic_. A well-directed thrust with the boathook enabled Brandon to reduce the number by one. The fellow, wildly pawing the air, tumbled backwards, falling between the fishing smack and the boat. Before Brandon could make another lunge a powerful hand grasped the boathook. Instantly the Patrol-leader dropped the stave, seized a hatchet, and with the back of the steel head dealt a sweeping blow at the legs of the fellow who had gained possession of the boathook. {Illustration: "A WELL-DIRECTED THRUST ENABLED BRANDON TO REDUCE THE NUMBER BY ONE." [_P_. 108} Down went the Belgian, dragging another with him, the two falling upon the man who had previously been "ditched." Their combined weight and bulk sent the boat a good five yards from the smack; while the two men left on the _Frolic's_ fore-deck, finding their retreat cut off, promptly leapt overboard. "That's settled 'em!" exclaimed Old Negus triumphantly. "Eh? What be the matter wi' your head, boy?" "Only a scratch," replied Brandon, hardly aware of the fact that blood was trickling from a cut in the centre of his forehead. But the old fisherman was wrong in his surmise. The assailants, having pulled the swimmers into their boat, were returning to the attack.