and ready to retort upon those whom he looked upon as
tyrants.

The frigate had been ordered to cruise in the Channel off the French
coast, and a sharp look-out was kept night and day for an enemy.

"We shall soon see how these young gentlemen behave if we get alongside
of mounseer. They can hold their heads high enough now, but when the
Frenchman's shot come whizzing about their ears, they'll duck them fast
enough," said Ben.

"Is there a chance, then, of our having a battle?" inquired Dick. "I
should like to be in one, just to see how things are managed."

"If Captain Moubray is the sort of man I have heard him described, he'll
do his best to look out for an enemy," replied Ben.

Still, day after day passed by and no suspicious sail was met with. At
length, one evening, soon after dark, the _Wolf_ was standing in towards
the French coast. Having passed the Island of Groix, she continued on
until several shots were fired at her from a fort, which, however, did
no damage. She put about, and a short time afterwards, the wind being
East-North-East, the look-out aloft shouted--

"A sail on the lee bow!"

The stranger was now seen to be running west by south. The _Wolf_
immediately made all sail, and as she got nearer, two muskets were fired
towards the chase, which appeared to be a large ship, to bring her to.
Instead of so doing, however, the Frenchman, for such she undoubtedly
was, set all the sail she could carry, endeavouring to escape. This
seemed strange, for as far as could be judged, she was a larger ship
than the _Wolf_.

"Will she get away?" asked Dick, who was standing near Ben Rudall at one
of the bow-ports on the maindeck, through which they could dimly see the
chase rising like some phantom giant stalking over the deep.

"Not if we continue to overhaul her as we are now doing," answered Ben.

"Will she fight?" inquired Dick.

"Ay, and fight hard, too, just as a rat does when caught in a corner.
It's a way those Frenchmen have, though why she runs now is more than I
can tell. Maybe some of us will be losing the number of our mess. I
should not care if I was among them myself. It's a dog's life I lead on
board here; but I am thinking of poor Susan. If I am hit, it will be
hard lines with her; she and the young ones will have to bear up for the
work'us, for there's no one will care for the smuggler's wife, as they
call her."

"But I hope you won't be killed, Ben," said Dick; "there's no