Shortening sail, Conyngham headed the yawl southward. Out to sea the cutter was holding the same course, watching like a cat at a rat-hole. It looked as if escape was impossible, for a long promontory ran out to south not four leagues away, and with a shifted wind it would be only by miracle that they could keep from going ashore. But the darkness, that Conyngham was waiting for, came at last, ushered in by a blinding fall of rain, and in it he once more managed to make an offing and by good luck and good seamanship weathered the point, and with the cutter somewhere back in the darkness, he made out once more into the open channel. At daybreak he was off Dover and could see the flag flying on the walls of the castle, and a mass of shipping about the entrance. He made boldly in and dropped his little anchor amid a fleet of small craft. The harbor at this time was not one of the best in the world, for the shingle bar would keep shifting, and the breakwaters, except the old basin piers, were not then built. But lying well out Captain Conyngham detected a vessel that, from the description he had received from Mr. Allan, he was sure could be none other than the Roebuck. His sailing in so boldly had not attracted the least notice, and as he had bidden most of the crew to keep themselves out of sight under the tarpaulins, the number of men he had with him had not attracted attention either. Just at dusk he got up his anchor and came farther up into the harbor. As he passed by the Roebuck his heart was beating with excitement, for she looked to be the very vessel for his purpose. He was within hailing distance when a figure came on deck. He could scarce refrain from shouting from sheer joy, for he recognized the stocky figure of his friend Allan. Another minute and he had called his name. Working the yawl alongside he soon stepped on deck. It was considered too risky to transfer the men while there was yet light enough for them to be perceived, and, uncomfortable as it may have been for them, they remained in their cramped position in the smaller boat until almost midnight. In the early morning hours the Roebuck slipped her cable and slid out like a ghost through the channel fog. The yawl was being towed behind, but as it impeded the lugger’s sailing the small boat was stove in, laden with some of the spare ballast from the Roebuck, and sunk. Without adventure or molestation they reached Dunkirk under the British flag. As they dropped anchor well up the harbor, Mr. Allan turned to the young captain with a smile. “Well, sir,” he said, “this part of the proceeding is over and we are ready to go on with the rest of it. By the way, shall we keep the name?” He pointed to the stern of the jolly-boat where the word Roebuck stood out in red letters. “No,” returned Conyngham, “that will all be changed. She has been renamed what we hope she’ll be.” “And that is?” queried Mr. Allan. “The Surprise,” was Conyngham’s answer. CHAPTER VII