The long nines roar cheerfully, spouting fire and smoke. Then comes that crashing inboard leap, to be caught up short by the tackle. Again the sponges; again the rammers; with the busy shot-handlers working in between. And all the while the little powder monkeys, lads of eleven and twelve, go pattering to and fro, with cartridges from the magazines. “Why, yes, sir!” responds the master-gunner, now finding time to reply to the comment of Captain Paul Jones; “as you says, we’re trying to hull her, sir.” Captain Paul Jones makes out three new holes below the Brake’s plankslieer, the hopeful harvest of that last broadside. “May I ask,” demands Captain Paul Jones, who as a mere first effect of battle never fails of a rippling amiability, “may I ask, Mr. Starbuck, your design in thus aiming below the water-line?” “Saving you presence, Captain, we designs to sink the bitch.” “Precisely! That is what I surmised! To a quick seaman like yourself, Mr. Starbuck, a word will do. I don’t want her sunk, d’ye see! I want to bring her into France as an object-lesson, and show the Frenchmen what Americans can do. Under the circumstances, Mr. Starbnck, I shall be obliged if you let her hull alone. It will take Mr. Hitchburn, our carpenter, a week as it is “--this comes off reproachfully--“to stop the holes you’ve already made. And so, Mr. Starbnck, from now on comb her decks and cut her up in the spars as much as ever you like; but please keep off her hull.” “Ay, ay, sir!” says the master-gunner, saluting. Then: “Pass the word that we’re to leave her hull alone. Cap’n has set his heart on catching her alive.” With that the plan of attack finds reversal, the _Ranger_ firing as she comes up to port and when only a narrow streak of the Drake’s starboard beam is visible above the waves. Captain Paul Jones remains among the sailors, canvassing in a gratified way the results of this change. While thus engaged, port-fire Anthony Jeremiah grins up at him, meanwhile blowing his match to keep it lighted. “You enjoy yourself, I see, Jerry,” remarks Captain Paul Jones, who, as observed, is never so affable as when guns are crashing, blood is flowing, and splinters flying. “Me like to hear the big guns talk, Captain,” responds the Indian. “It gives Jerry a good heart.” Captain Paul Jones again swings his glass on the Drake. He is just in time to see her fore and main topsail-yards come down onto the caps by the run. The last broadside does that. In an instant, he is running aft. “Down with your helm, Mr. Sargent!” he roars. “Pull her down for every ounce that’s in you, man!” Quartermaster Sargent, thus encouraged, climbs the wheel like a squirrel; the _Ranger_‘s topsails shiver; then, yielding to her helm, she slowly luffs across the helpless stern of the Drake. “Aboard with those sta’board tacks!” shouts Captain Paul Jones. Then, turning again to the wheelman: “Steady, Mr. Sargent; keep her full!”