"Don't dear Bertha me!" and the little beauty stamped her foot. "You ought to get to land as quickly as you can, and not fly into greater danger." The heavy boom of a gun startled her. "Take me back to America, won't you, Mr. Tempest?" "I would like to; but there is some fighting before us, I am afraid." He went on deck, not waiting to hear what new objection she would raise, or fresh obstacle interpose. To his great joy he found that there was a likelihood of a very dark night, and neither British nor American would care about a night engagement at sea. "Shall we reply, sir?" asked Scarron. "No; we cannot reach the sloop, and we cannot afford to waste powder and shot." "I found twenty kegs of powder in the hold, sir." "You did? That is great!" "So I thought, sir, and there are more shots than powder on the _Lively Bee_, and we have a lot of nails on board." "I see; if you get at close quarters you would fire nails?" "Why not, sir? They would kill a man just as well as lead." "You are right, but I don't want to fight at all if I can help it." "I understand, sir. I guess we shan't do much until morning." "Have everything in readiness." "Yes, sir." The darkness increased so rapidly that it was impossible to do any effective fighting, and as the _Lively Bee_ and _Caroline_ would have to contend against a well-equipped man-of-war, it seemed the height of imprudence to attempt a surprise. A boat was lowered from the _Caroline_, but no sooner did it strike the water than a gun was fired from the English vessel. This was warning so significant that the boat did not proceed on its trip, and yet Tempest wanted to communicate with the _Lively Bee_. "I tell you, sir, only a good swimmer could reach the privateer safely," said Scarron. "But who could swim that distance?" asked Tempest. "There is Bob, the powder-monkey." "Do you think----" "That he would go? Why, sir, Bob would let his head be used as a rammer for a cannon if he thought he could serve the Republic." "Send him to me." "Ay, ay, sir." A few minutes and a boy some fifteen years of age stood before Lieutenant Tempest. "Bob, are you a good swimmer?" asked the officer. Bob's face lighted up with a smile, a smile which quickly developed into a grin, which threatened to extend from ear to ear. He did not answer, but pulled his forelock. Bob had no other name, for he was a foundling. One night Scarron had discovered a wee might of humanity on the doorstep of a deserted house in New York. He picked up the child, told the constables of his find, and they very good-naturedly declared that "those who find should keep," so Scarron kept the boy, called him Bob, and educated him in all the learning of the gutter. Bob profited so well that before he was ten years old he could swear like a trooper, fight like a pugilist, climb a flagpole with the smartest, swim like a fish, and do a very great many other physical feats.