At this thrilling moment, a man wearing a frock-coat discharged a revolver at Christy, who was standing on the rail above him, and then, seizing the painter in the hands of the men, he climbed briskly to the accommodation steps, which had been hoisted up, but not taken on board. Christy was in the most dangerous position on board, for he seemed to be the target for all who could use their revolvers. But the young commander was not asleep, though he had given no order for the last minute or two. The boat was directly under him, and he had put his pistol in his hip-pocket, in order to take up the solid shot at his feet. It was heavy, but he lifted it over his head without any difficulty, and launched it into the boat with all the force he could give to it. "On deck, there! Let go that painter!" shouted Christy, as he pitched his missile from his hands. He was in a position so favorable for the operation that he could not well miss his aim, and the shot crashed through the bottom of the boat, carrying down one of the enemy with it. It did not make a round hole in the bottom of the boat, it was afterwards ascertained, as it might if it had been fired from one of the broadside guns, but it tore off the planking, and made a hole as big as the head of a flour-barrel. "Lay hold of that man on the accommodation ladder!" shouted Christy, without waiting to observe the effect of his shot, for the man who had succeeded in mounting the side was armed with a dangerous weapon, which he was likely to use as soon as he found the opportunity. The men forward of the point where the boat had come alongside had been ordered aft, and a couple of them dragged the venturesome officer, as his frock-coat indicated that he was, to the deck. Christy was almost sure this man was Haslett, who had certainly set a bold example to his companions in the boat. He was quickly secured, and by no gentle hands. His hands were tied behind him, and he was made fast to the rail, where he was likely to be harmless during the rest of the trip. It was no easy matter for a boat to make fast to a steamer going ten knots an hour at least, and if the painter of the boat had not been carelessly left where it could be of service to the assailants, the affair would have ended with Boxie's unsuccessful cast of the shot. But as soon as the painter was let go, an order which Sampson hastened to execute, the enemy's hold upon the ship was lost, though they were using boathooks and other implements to make sure of their grasp. The boat was left behind by the ship, though not till the hole had been stove in her bottom. "Beg pardon, Mr. Passford, for missing my heave with the shot," said Boxie, on the deck; and the veteran's heart seemed to be almost broken by his failure.