The _Richard_, the little _Pallas_ close to its heels, cracks on canvas throughout the night. The winds are mere puffs and catspaws; still, slow as is their speed, daylight finds them within throwing distance of their destination. They are the wrong-side of the weather, however, and the whole day is wasted in beating inshore against the wind. Our young commodore must do all the work; for the English merchantmen, as though faint with fear at the sight of him, refuse to come out; while the _Serapis_ and its consort stick close to them in their role of guardships. The sun goes down, night descends, and as yet our young commodore has not been able to get within reach of the foe; for at beating to windward the _Richard_ is as dull as a Dutchman. When darkness comes, it unlooses a land breeze. With that the merchantmen take heart of grace, and resolve to dare all and run for it. They rush out of Bridlington Bay, wind free, like a flock of seagulls. What is a fair wind for them is a headwind for the _Richard_ and _Pallas_; with no one to molest them, the fifty timber ships show a clean pair of heels. Commodore Paul Jones makes no effort to chase; it would be seamanship thrown away. Besides, the _Serapis_ has laid its sails aback, and is waiting to hear from him; while the _Countess of Scarboro_ guarding the flanks of the fugitive timber ships, seems eagerly willing to try conclusions with the _Pallas_. The temptation is too great; Commodore Paul Jones makes no least effort to resist it. Signaling the _Pallas_ to close with and pull down the smaller ship, with his own eye on the _Serapis_, he begins manoeuvring for the upper hand. The sea is as smooth as glass; a great harvest moon shoots up in the cloudless sky. As when the _Ranger_ fought the _Drake_, it is to be a fight by the light of the moon. The _Richard_ tacks starboard and port, the _Serapis_ lying in wait. Decks cleared, guns shotted and run out, magazines open, men stripped and at their quarters, both ships are as ferociously ready as bulldogs. Commodore Paul Jones scans the _Serapis_ through his glass. “How heavy is he, Commodore?” It is Dr. Brooke, surgeon of the _Richard_, who puts the question. He has been laying out his instruments and bandages in the cockpit, in readiness for a hard night’s work, and now pokes his nose on deck for a last breath of fresh air. “Is that you, Doctor?” returns Commodore Paul Jones. The amiable tones bespeak that bland urbanity which is his dominant characteristic on the threshold of battle. “It’s the _Serapis_; a forty-four-gun ship of the Rainbow class, six months off the stocks.” It should be observed that Commodore Paul Jones’ pet study is the British navy, and he knows more about it--ships, guns, and men--than does the king’s admiralty itself.