“Forty-four guns! Rainbow class!” repeats the worthy doctor, who himself is not without a working knowledge of ships and their comparative strengths. “Then she’s a stronger ship, with heavier metal, than the _Richard_?” “As three is to two, Doctor,” replies Commodore Paul Jones, shutting up his glass and preparing for action. “None the less, we shall fight them and beat them just the same.” Aboard the _Serapis_, Captain Pearson is holding his glass on the _Richard_, not a cable’s length away. Suddenly the _Richard_ wears and backs its topsail, thereby bringing its broadside to bear upon the _Serapis_. “That was a clever manoeuvre!” remarks Captain Pearson, admiringly, to Lieutenant Wright, who stands by his side. “It holds for him the weather-gage, and makes it impossible for me to luff across his hawse, without exposing my ship to be raked.” “Who is he?” asks Lieutenant Wright; for the _Serapis_ is just home from Norway, and the word that set all England to lighting beacons and doubling coast-guards has not reached it. “Who is he?” repeats Captain Pearson, soberly. “He is Paul Jones; and, my word for it, Lieutenant, there is work ahead.” CHAPTER XV--THE “RICHARD” AND THE “SERAPIS” The ships are slowly closing, watchful as wrestlers striving for holds, the _Richard_ edging down with the wind, the _Serapis_ holding on. “What ship is that?” hails Captain Pearson. There is no reply. “What ship is that?” comes the second hail. The response is a storm of solid shot from the _Richard_‘s flaming broadside. As the _Richard_ goes into action, Commodore Paul Jones swings his glass along the eastern horizon. The _Pallas_ is going down the wind, in hot pursuit of the _Countess of Scarboro_, yawing and firing its bow-chaser as it runs; while far out to sea lies the traitor Landais, sulking or skulking, it matters little which, his coward topsails just visible against the moonlit sky-line. With the wind aft, the _Richard_ and the _Serapis_ head northwest, both on the port tack. The moon makes the scene as light as day; the sea is as evenly smooth as a ballroom floor. The _Richard_ goes over on the starboard tack, the _Serapis_ holding as she is; the ships approach each other, the _Richard_ keeping the weather-gage. For twenty minutes it is broadside and broadside as fast as men may handle sponge and rammer. As in the hour of the _Drake_ and _Ranger_, the Yankees show smarter with their guns. When the battle begins, the _Richard_ has to its broadside three eighteen-pounders, as against the _Serapis_’ ten. With the first fire, two of the _Richard_‘s three explode, killing half the men that serve them, and tearing open the main gun-deck immediately above. Lieutenant Mayrant, who has command in the gunroom where the three eighteens are mounted, reports the disaster to Commodore Paul Jones. The latter receives the news beamingly, as though it were the enemies’ eighteen-pounders, and not his own, that have been put out of action.