I found that the crew had by this time started and taken up the planks of the cabin floor, and had stowed themselves well down into the run, so as to be as much out of harm’s way as they could manage, but there was neither fear nor flinching amongst them; and although totally devoid of all gasconade--on the contrary, they had taken all the precautions men could do in their situation, to keep out of harm’s way, or at least to lessen the danger--there they sat, silent, and cool, and determined. “I shall never undervalue an American as an enemy again,” thought I. I lay down on the side of the little vessel, now nearly level as she lay over, alongside of Paul Brandywine, in a position that commanded a view of Obed’s face through the small scuttle. Ten minutes might have elapsed--a tearing crash--and a rattle on the deck overhead, as if a shower of stones had been thrown from aloft on it. “That’s through the mainmast, I expect,” quoth Paul. I looked from him to the Captain; a black thick stream of blood was trickling down behind his ear. Paul had noticed it also. “You are hurt by one of them splinters, I see; give me the helm now, Captain;” and, crushed down as the poor fellow appeared to be under some fearful and mysterious consciousness of impending danger, he nevertheless addressed himself to take his Captain’s place. “Hold your blasted tongue”--was the polite rejoinder. “I say, Captain,”--shouted your humble servant, “you may as well eat pease with a pitchfork, as try to weather him. You are hooked, man, flounder as you will. Old Nick can’t shake you clear--so I won’t stand this any longer;” and making a spring, I jammed myself through the skylight, until I sat on the deck, looking aft, and confronting him, and there we were, stuck up like the two kings of Brentford, or a couple of smiling cherries on one stalk. I have often laughed over the figure we must have cut, but at the time there was that going on that would have made Comus himself look grave. I had at length fairly aroused the sleeping devil within him.