drew him up on deck. "A Frenchman," was the verdict in gruff
Dutch. George did not understand Dutch, but he instantly guessed their
meaning.

"Not I," he cried, in English, and was delighted to be answered in the
same tongue by the skipper.

George's account of his escape, translated by the captain, set the fat
Dutchmen a-rolling. And, after the lad had had the good square meal
the skipper ordered for him, he spent the evening in going over his
adventures again. The jolly-hearted English lad became an immediate
favourite with the sailors and the soldiers, for, as he soon learnt,
the ship was a Dutch transport carrying troops and stores for the war
in Spain.

"Where are we, sir?" George inquired of the skipper next morning when
he came on deck, to find a clear sky, and land faintly seen on the
starboard bow.

"Off the Isle of Wight, my lad," replied the Dutchman.

"Can't you put me ashore, captain?" he pleaded.

The master smiled and shook his head.

"Impossible, boy; you must go with us to Spain. And here comes a
gentleman to speak with you."

An officer in military uniform approached, and the boy touched his
cap. With the skipper as interpreter the major made George an offer of
service under him.

"We want fellows of your sort," he said. "And there will be brave
doings in Spain, and plenty of good pay, and glory to be won. Besides,
you will be fighting under one of your own countrymen, most likely Sir
George Rooke himself. Say the word, my good lad."

George's face flushed.

"I have always wanted to be a soldier, sir," he stammered.

"Of course you have, my lad. Then we may take it that the matter is
settled. Good luck go with you, my boy."

Here then was George Fairburn, who ought to have been driving a quill
in the office of Mr. Allan, shipping merchant, of London, sailing to
join the allied forces in Spain, and to fight against the French. His
head swam with the thought of it.

But what of George's friends at home all this long while? When
Fairburn learnt that his brig had not arrived in port, though she had
been spoken in Boston Deeps by another collier which was returning to
the Tyne, his heart misgave him. There had been a bad storm on the
coast; it seemed only too likely that the _Ouseburn Lassie_ had gone
down in it! When week after week passed without news it seemed more
and more likely that the vessel had foundered in the gale. News of
captures by French privateers usually filtered through