Undeterred by half a dozen stones hurled by the crew of the _Frolic_, the poachers again rowed towards the smack, the bowman protecting himself by holding up a large triangular grating. By this time it was evident that they were aware of the actual number of the _Frolic's_ crew, and confident in a four-to-one superiority they sought to end the encounter by a determined rush. In a trice Old Negus dashed into the fo'c'sle, emerging with a huge iron saucepan filled with boiling water. "Stand clear, boy!" he exclaimed warningly; then with a sweep of his sinewy arm he hurled the saucepan and its scalding contents into the midst of the attackers in the bow of the boat. Yells and screams of agony burst from the tortured men. Oars trailed aimlessly alongside, as they relinquished them to hold their hands to their blistering faces. The boat, still carrying way, glided under the _Frolic's_ stern, a thrust with one of the smack's sweeps sending her clear. This time the would-be boarders had had more than enough. Groaning and yelling, they managed to row back to the _Marie-Celeste_. Ten minutes passed without any further communication between the _Frolic_ and the _Marie-Celeste_. Then a voice, plaintively apologetic, came from the poop of the Belgian drifter:-- "Anglais! Ve gif twenty-five pours' if you pull in ze anchor." "Make it fifty while you'm about it," replied Old Negus. "'Twon't make no difference. Here we bide." Nevertheless, the skipper of the _Frolic_ began to feel a bit anxious, for during the encounter the _Marie-Celeste's_ head had fallen off and now lay with the land broad on her port beam. It was quite possible that if she went ahead again she might be able to steam beyond the all-important "three-mile limit." "Ver' well," continued the Belgian, who had now observed the altered state of affairs. "Ve back to Ostende go. On ze voyage we cut an' buoy ze trawl; zen we sink you." Which was exactly what Old Negus feared. In the darkness the helpless _Frolic_ could be sunk without a trace, since even if she slipped her cable, she would be at the mercy of the powerful steam drifter. "It's no use your tryin' that," he shouted brazenly. "We've telled the coastguards, an' there's a gunboat on her way already. Wish she wur," he added under his breath. The next instant the drifter and the _Frolic_ were bathed in a dazzling white light. Brandon gave a cheer. At the opportune moment, help was at hand. CHAPTER XVIII CLEARING UP THE MYSTERY THE Patrol-leader could only surmise that the searchlight came from a British warship. It was impossible to discern the source of that blinding beam or to form any idea of the distance from which it came. Then through the night came a crisp order: "Away sea-boat's crew!" The steady plash of oars and the creaking of crutches announced the approach of the warship's boat. Presently she swung athwart the dazzling beam, the crew outlined in silver as they bent to the pliant oars.