The other had not seen him: for he was standing, back turned, and a short black-snouted pistol in the hand behind him; directing operations in the creek. What did it all mean? what was that banging and business in the creek? It was to find this out that he had come. A sound close at hand drew his mind to his ears. The crest of the shingle-bank was some twenty yards away. From the reverse slope came the crunch and scream of disturbed pebbles. Somebody was scrambling up the bank towards him, the pebbles pouring noisily away beneath his feet. What to do?--turn and bolt? He could be back across the grass before the slow-foot Frenchman had sworn himself to the crest. Lie there out in the open, to be made prisoner, or potted at thirty yards? No, no, no! To retreat was shame: to stay death. But one course remained--the riskiest, which, as he had heard the Parson say, in a tight place is often the safest. That course was forward. Take the man unawares as he crested the rise; dirk him; one swift glimpse at the lugger and the doings in the creek; and then pelting home before the enemy had realised the situation and begun to shout. "_François! François!_" came an irritable voice. The climber stopped. "_Qu'as-tu donc, mon Caporal?_" "_Nom d'un chien!_" snapped the other. "_Faut il me faire matelot? Aidez moi un peu avec ces satanées cordes!_" The climber slithered down on his heels, a cataract of shingle streaming behind him. Swift to seize his chance, Kit rushed the crest, the crash of the Frenchman's retreat drowning his approach. There, flat on his face, he peeped. Beneath him, on the run of the shingle, lay the lugger. Her jib was flapping; the mainsail set for the hoisting; every stick and stay in place. Half a dozen burly Grenadiers, black-muzzled with a week's beard, were busy about her, stowing their kits, laughing and chattering. A sprightly little Corporal, balancing on the stern, was spitting forth orders. The foreign language, there on his native shore, made a discord in the boy's heart. "_Quand partirons-nous?_" asked François, wading down the shingle, pack on back. "_Aussitôt que tout sera prêt la-bas,_" answered the corporal, casting a glance over his shoulder. "_Bah! ces gueux d'Anglais! Monsieur le Général en a par dessus les yeux._" Kit followed the man's eyes. III A track of feet led from the lugger to the creek across the wet sand. Along it a tail of smugglers were trundling barrels gingerly. At the entrance to the sluice others were hoisting and heaving. Above them stood that slight figure against the sky-line, the ominous pistol lurking behind him. And it was clear the ruffians were smouldering to mutiny. Their heads were over their shoulders as they worked, and their eyes on the lugger. The soldiers were coming! they felt the halter tightening round their necks; and they were mad to be away.