close aboard the
frigate-like craft, steering directly towards it. Despite
the seeming security of the harbor, there were sentries
posted on the frigate and officers moving about its deck.
From one of these now came a loud hail in the Tripolitan
tongue.

"What craft is that?"

"The Mastico, from Malta," came the answer, in the same
language.

"Keep off. Do you want to run afoul of us?"

"We would like to ride beside you for the night," came the
answer. "We have lost our anchors in a gale."

The conversation continued, in the Tripolitan language, as
the ketch crept slowly up, an officer of the frigate and the
pilot of the smaller vessel being the spokesmen. A number of
Moorish sailors were looking with mild curiosity over the
frigate's rails, without a moment's suspicion that anything
was wrong. The moon still dimly lit up the waters of the
bay, but not with light enough to make any object very
distinct.

As the ketch came close a boat was lowered with a line, and
was rowed towards the frigate, to whose fore-chains the end
was made fast. At the same time the officer of the large
vessel, willing to aid the seemingly disabled coaster,
ordered some of his men to lower a boat and take a line from
the stern to the ketch. As the boat of the latter returned,
it met the frigate's boat, took the line from the hands of
its crew, and passed it in to the smaller vessel.

The ketch was now fast to the frigate bow and stern. The
lines were passed to the men lying on the deck, none of whom
were visible from the frigate's rail, and were slowly passed
from hand to hand by the men, the coaster thus being
cautiously drawn closer to the obliging Moorish craft.

All this took time. Foot by foot the ketch drew nearer, her
motion being almost imperceptible. The Moors looked lazily
over their bulwark, fancying that it was but the set of the
current that was bringing the vessels together. But suddenly
there was a change. The officer of the frigate had
discovered that the ketch was still provided with anchors,
despite the story that her anchors had been lost in a gale.

"What is this?" he cried, sternly. "You have your anchors!
You have lied to me! Keep off! Cut those fasts there!"

A moment afterwards the cry of "Amerikanos!" was raised in
the ship, and a number of the night-watch drew their knives
and hastened fore and aft to cut the fasts.

The crew of the Mastico--or the Intrepid, to give it its
proper name--were still mo