The man below stopped humming. Kit could not see him; so he could not see the flag. Down he slid, the mast scraping his knees as he went; but he scarcely felt the pain. His heart was swelling. The privateer was flying British colours. She was his. Single-handed he had taken a French ship. He was half in tears, half laughing. It seemed so dream-like, so ridiculous. Down the shrouds, and back to the deck. II Not a soul stirred. Forward somewhere a man shouted in his sleep. Aft the sentinel was whistling now. Swift as an eel, the boy flashed to the side, and poised for his plunge. No! the splash would be heard. Swiftly along the deck, making for his steppingstone, the lugger. His work done, his heart brimming, the boy was ripe for mischief as a happy girl. As he stole along the deck, his eyes never left the soldier's back. The fellow was leaning over the bulwark, his trousers tight, and their contents rounded and tempting. Should he, should he spank him? A moment the boy struggled with his imp-self, and prevailed. Nelson! Duty! He slipped over into the lugger. The tide had shifted her position. Now she bumped under the stern of the privateer. The port of the stern-cabin was open, and light poured from it. Standing on the weather-boarding, Kit peeped in. A little fat man was sitting at a table, dead asleep, and snoring stertorously. His arms were on the table, and his head on his arms. He was quite bald, and very red. His lips pouted, and the under one thrust up towards his nose. The little round body rose and fell, bladder-like. His nose was a snout, short and cocked. A more pig-like little person Kit thought he had never seen. A great bottle stood on the table before him, and beside it a scratch- wig and guttering candle. On the table a pistol pinned down a chart, and under the sleeper's head was a sheet of paper and a pen. Piggy had fallen asleep writing. Flung into a corner was a cocked hat. Beside it lay a much-mounted sword, and on a chair a blue frock-coat, with tawdry epaulettes. The boy lifted his eyes. An obscene print decorated the bulk-head. It smote him in the face like a handful of filth. He snatched his eyes away. They fell upon a tarpaulin-bag hung on the door. On the bag was an eagle, beneath it a large N. That settled it. The boy meant to have that bag. III He was through the port in a twinkling. The man was sleeping like the dead, his head askew on his hands, and lips compressed in pouting content. For the time being the body had mastered invincibly any soul there might be within. The man was so much slow-heaving earth. The naked boy leaned over the sleeper. The pen had fallen from Piggy's hand, and left a little scrawl across the letter he had been writing. The character was flourishing, self-complacent, and, above all, easy to read. It was written in French, and ran, translated, _Sire,