“I feel sure of it, sir; though of course I did not see him.” “And you think that he was after the packet given you by Mr. Hancock?” “I think so--yes.” “Then he also shipped with us in the hope of still getting his hands upon it, somehow. I’ll have Simpson clap the villain in irons.” Ethan hastily laid his hand upon the captain’s arm. “See,” said he, pointing to the after battery, where the tawny Lascar was busying himself rubbing down one of the six-pounders under the direction of the gunner’s mate, “there he is, now. And I hardly think he’s the prime mover in the matter.” “No,” said John Paul Jones, “it does not seem likely. He is more apt to be a subtle, deft-handed instrument, used by a superior mind.” “Would it not be wise,” suggested Ethan, “for you to hold your hand a bit longer; we might also be able to capture the master as well as the man.” The commander patted him on the shoulder approvingly. “Excellent,” said he, nodding his head. “That is just what we will do. The Lascar can be laid by the heels any time we choose to do it; it’s the mysterious fellow in the shadow that is the dangerous one. We will leave the trap open--and we will wait for him to show himself.” CHAPTER V HOW ETHAN CARLYLE FACED THE BULLY OF THE RANGER The knowledge displayed by Ethan in the working of a ship during the first week out, and his ready courage in the taking of a couple of British prizes, won the regard of the Ranger’s tars, and he was ever a welcome visitor to the forecastle when he chose to go there. Many were the yarns they told him of voyages with Barry, Murray, Whipple and other hearts of oak; and many were those he told in return of strange seas, strange ports and stranger people. He had finished telling of an adventure in the China Sea in his grandfather’s ship, Warlock; and during the appreciative pause that followed, the silence was rudely broken by a loud, sneering laugh. “He pulls a long bow for a youngster,” said a voice; “and you seasoned tars sit around and draw it in like sucking pigs their mammy’s milk.” Ethan flushed scarlet, and a murmur went up from the watch below. But it was the master’s mate that spoke, a huge-chested Canadian named Blake; and no one among the seamen dared to resent his words, for in his week among them he had, by his ruffianism, cowed them all. A few, at the beginning, had dared to defy him; but his brawny fists had soon beaten them into submission. Indeed, by this time, the forecastle had come to be a sort of grill upon which the bully toasted his shipmates one after the other and laughed at their helpless squirming.