“Curse upon you, for a cowardly rascal, who ever you are, to run away from a Frenchman!” shouted out old Ben on the shore, whilst the sweat trickled down in large drops from his forehead. But both he and the Frenchman were mistaken, in thinking that the brig was endeavouring to get off; for this was only a feint on the part of Harry, who, finding that the enemy was so much superior in his weight of metal, saw that his only chance was in close quarters, when he trusted the bravery of his tars would prove victorious over the number of the French. Calling, therefore, all his men on the quarter-deck, he told them that their only chance of victory lay in close quarters. “Are you ready, my brave fellows,” he added, “to follow your commander to the Frenchman’s deck? They are three to one of us; but you know what the intrepidity of a handful of British seamen can achieve.” Three cheers followed these words, which were heard by the people on the shore; and, ignorant of the cause, they anxiously awaited the result. “Get the boarding pikes ready there!” shouted Harry; “and every man arm himself with a cutlass and brace of pistols; and when the Frenchman comes up, lash her to us, and then to it, yard-arm and yard-arm.” “All ready, sir,” shouted the men—“all ready.” The Frenchman was now again up to the brig, which she already considered as her prize, when suddenly the _Hawk_ tacked right athwart her bows, and in a moment was lashed alongside. “Ay, that is something like,” cried Ben, rubbing his hands for joy—“oh, that I was on board of you, to lend you a helping hand!” “Hurrah, my hearties! and old England for ever!” shouted Harry, springing on the Frenchman’s deck, followed by thirty of his crew. “Old England for ever!” shouted his men, rushing after him, like so many hungry tigers.