as no stern-gun ports," said the British
sea-captain. "So keep the ship abaft, and on th' port quarter, where
we can let loose our bow-guns and get little in return."

This was done, but--if we are to believe an old chronicler of the
period--"The British crew had been thrown into such confusion by the
_Pomona_'s first broadside that _they were able to fire only one or
two shots every half hour_."

"By Gad," cried Joshua Barney to Captain Robinson, about this time,
"let's cut a hole in our stern, shove a cannon through it, and whale
the British landlubber as he nears us for another shot with her
bow-chasers."

The captain grinned.

"A good idea, Barney, a good idea," he chuckled. "Now we can teach her
to keep clear of us."

So a three-pounder soon poked her nose through the stern, and, when
the proud Britisher again came up for one of her leisurely discharges,
she received a dose of grape which made her captain haul off
precipitously. Nor did he venture near again for another shot at the
saucy fugitive.

When daylight came, sixteen guns were counted upon the British brig.

"By George!" shouted Barney. "See those officers in the rigging. She's
a gun-ship--a regular ship-of-war."

But Captain Robinson laughed.

"That's an old game," said he. "They're tryin' to fool us into the
belief that she's a real gun-boat, so's we'll surrender immediately.
But see--she's drawin' near again--and seems as if she's about to
board us from the looks of her crew."

Barney gazed intently at the stranger.

"You're right," said he. "Load the three-pounder with grape-shot."

"And here's a crow-bar as'll top it off nice," put in a sailor.

Captain Robinson laughed.

"Yes, spike her in, too. She'll plunk a hole clear through th'
rascal," he cried. "I'll touch her off myself."

The British gun-boat drew nearer and nearer. Just as she was within
striking distance--about ten yards--the three-pounder was touched off
with a deaf'ning roar.

"So accurate was the aim," says an old historian, "that the British
were completely baffled in their attempt; their foresails and all
their weather foreshrouds being cut away."

"Give her a broadside!" called out Captain Robinson, as the brig
sheered off in order to support its foremast, which tottered with its
own weight; the rigging which supported it, being half cut away. And,
as he spoke--the crew let drive a shower of balls and grape-shot. It
was the last volley.

The _Pomona_ kept upo