The old man had done his own work from underneath with the jack-knife. Out poked his badger-grey head from under his man, much as the boy had often seen a ferret from beneath the body of a disembowelled rabbit. "So fur so good," grunted the old man, crawling out on hands and knees, the scent-bottle between his teeth. "How's things forrad?" Forward the deck was all but clear. The remnant of the boarders, jammed up in the bows, were being hammered to death. A last fellow in a red night-cap, swarming out on the bowsprit, plumped into the sea. The Gunner leapt on to the bulwark. "Cleared, be God! alow and aloft!" he roared, swinging his chain-shot about his head. "Ats off all!-- _God save h'our gracious King._" A bandaged head poked out of the hatchway. "They're swarmin in through the port-holes!" came a husky scream. Old Ding-dong lifted on his elbows. "Leave the quarter-deck to me and the boy!" he roared. "Clear the main-deck." "Ay, ay, sir," answered the Gunner, racing for the ladder. "Back to hell, the leetle beetches!" The old man looked up. "Any more for us, Mr. Caryll?" A boat swept under the stern. "Here's another of them, sir!" The boy staggered to the side. A grappling iron swung from beneath almost struck him in the face. He seized the cook's poll-axe, and hacked away at the bulwark. Then he put his shoulder to a carronade and shoved. "H'all together eave!" whispered the dying cook, and lent a feeble hand. Over went the carronade with spinning wheels. It caught the boat fair amidships, and broke it up like matchwood. The boy leaned over. Beneath him in the green and sucking waters amid a litter of wreckage one or two heads showed, swimming faintly. Pale and panting, he turned. "I think that's the last, sir," languidly. The old Commander removed the plug from his mouth. "There's two things go to make a British seaman," he growled--"guts and gumption. Maybe you've got both, as your father had afoor you. We're like to see e'er the day's out." He wiped his jack-knife on his breeches, and began to carve his plug again. "Now run below and see how things are going with Mr. Lanyon." The boy went. His passion had long passed. He was sick and weary. Head and heart ached. With shaking knees, he tottered below. Had a party of jabbering Frenchmen met him, he wouldn't have minded. He was too spent. But no. All below was calm now and silence; smoke-drift and dying men. The Gunner was standing at an open port, directing operations. His passion too had passed. The giant-hero of a few minutes' back seemed almost small now. And a strange figure he made. The sweat had coursed through the rouge on his cheeks; and the dye on his whiskers had run, dripping on to neck and shoulders. He was naked still, save for his trousers, but wearing his cocked hat a-rake. The man at his side heaved a French corpse through the port. "That's the lot," said the Gunner, picking his teeth, and turned with black and grinning face to the boy.