Commodore Paul Jones leaps to the rail of the _Richard_, and sustains himself by one of the afterbraces. “Surrender?” he repeats, his brow dark with rage. “Surrender? I would have you to know, sir, that we’ve just begun to fight!” Back to the deck springs Commodore Paul Jones, while the face of Captain Pearson is stricken old and white. For the earliest time he realizes the desperate heart of that unconquerable one who has him in a death-grapple, and a premonition of his own defeat pierces his heart like a dagger of ice. As Commodore Paul Jones regains the deck, he observes Boatswain Jack Robinson who has waddled aft. The cloud of anger fades from his brow, and he breaks into a loud laugh that is tenfold worse than the cloud. “Eh, Jack, old trump! What say you to quitting?” he cries. “Why! as to surrenderin’, Commodore,” says Boatswain Jack Robinson, refreshing himself with a huge chew of tobacco, “I’m for sinkin’ alongside an’ seein’ ‘em damned first! Sink alongside, says I; an’ if the grapplin’ tackle holds, we’ll take ‘em with us to Davy Jones, d’ye see! An’ that’ll be a comfort!” “There’s the heart of oak!” returns Commodore Paul Jones, in vast approval of Boatswain Jack Robinson’s turgid views; “and when we’re next ashore in New London, old shipmate, I’ll tell Polly all about it. Meanwhile, our ensign’s trailing astern. Set it aboard by the halyards, fish and splice the gaff, and put it back in its place. Give the Englishmen a sight of that red, white and blue flag, Jack; it takes the fight out of ‘em.” “Ay, ay, sir!” responds Boatswain Jack Robinson, as he begins the task of recovering and replacing the ensign. “That flag does seem to let the whey out of a Britisher.” This is gratuitous slander on the parts of both Commodore Paul Jones and Boatswain Jack Robinson; for those villified ones have been fighting for hours, and are still at it with the quenchless valor of so many mastiffs. There is that at hand, however, that will daunt their iron courage and feed even their stout hearts to dismay. High up at the weather earring of the _Richard_‘s main topsail yard, Midshipman Fanning has been faithfully practicing with hand-grenades at that inviting triangular hole, where the hatch-cover of the _Serapis_ was shot-slewed to one side. It is not an easy mark, that black, three-cornered hole, and thus far Midshipman Fanning has missed. It is now that success crowns his work; a smoking, spitting hand-grenade goes cleanly through, and fetches up on the _Serapis_‘s lower gun deck. The explosion instantly occurs; it is as though the fuse were carefully timed for it.