“I can’t tell at this distance,” I answered, “but he looks to be a West Coast trader. Most likely he is one with a mixed cargo.” “There’ll not be many men on him, then?” “No,” I answered, carelessly, well knowing what the scoundrel was thinking of. “Probably a dozen or fifteen at the most.” Benson had now come on deck, and he, together with Johnson and the few leading men, held a conference as to what they should do about the strange ship ahead. It didn’t take long for them to decide after I gave them to understand the number of men they would probably find in the crew. “There’ll be no trouble about overhauling him before dark?” asked Benson. “None in the world,” I answered; “we can go ten fathoms to his one any time.” “Then hoist the Roger and let him know his time has come,” said the swaggering villain. Some of the more reckless spirits among the men had made a black flag and had stitched the canvas figures of a skull and cross-bones across its centre. They had never used it, and had made it more out of a spirit of bravado, while trying to kill time, than anything else. In a few moments it flew free and straight from the peak of the monkey-gaff. The men were almost wild when they found it was decided to take the strange ship. Benson stood on the break of the poop and gave orders for getting things in readiness forward. Then it was as though a pack of wolves had broken loose on the main-deck. Weapons were gotten out and cleaned. Cutlasses from the _Countess of Warwick_ and sheath-knives from the slop-chest were carefully sharpened. Before the sun had sunk near the horizon, the black hull of the stranger rose above the sea, and the villains were ready to take him. He was about three miles ahead now and drawing a little to leeward, so there was no trouble about him seeing our flag if he chose to look. I felt that he would be interested in its peculiar colour. I passed Brown and made a sign for him to be ready. I fixed my knife where it would be handy. Every moment was precious now. If the stranger would only see that flag before the convicts could tell of their mistake and crowd on canvas and get the weather-gage, all would be well. I watched him and saw the slanting rays of the sun shining on carefully scraped spars and snowy canvas, but no funnel showed above his deck and no ports showed in the long, smooth stretch of his shining black sides. Suddenly something fluttered in the wind. I looked harder, for we were so close now that the British ensign could be seen distinctly as it stood out straight in the breeze. Yes, I was not mistaken. Surely he was springing his luff and the canvas was slatting. Then I saw something that made my heart jump.