By
this time it was blowing pretty well half a gale from sou'-sou'-west,
and before midnight a proper gale. The _Bean Pheasant_ being kept head
to sea, took it smack-and-smack on the breast-bone, which was her
leakiest spot; and soon, being down by the head, made shocking weather
of it. 'Twas next door to impossible to work the pump forward. Towards
one in the morning old Jacka was rolling about up to his waist as he
sat, and trying to comfort himself by singing "Tho' troubles assail,"
when the young French gentleman came running with one of his Johnnies
and knocked the irons off the English boys, and told them to be
brisk and help work the pumps, or the lugger--that was already hove
to--would go down under them.

"But where be you going?" he sings out--or French to that effect. For
Jacka was moving aft towards the cuddy there.

Jacka fetched up his best smuggling French, and answered: "This here
lugger is going down. Any fool can see that, as you're handling her.
And I'm going down on a full stomach."

With that he reached an arm into the cuddy, where he'd stacked his
provisions that evening on top of the frying-pan. But the labouring of
the ship had knocked everything there of a heap, and instead of the
frying-pan he caught hold of his wife's cinder-sifter.

At that moment the Frenchman ran up behind and caught him a kick.
"Come out o' that, you old villain, and fall in at the after pump!"
said he.

"Aw, very well," said Jack, turning at once--for the cinder-sifter had
given him a bright idea; and he went right aft to his comrades. By
this time the Frenchmen were busy getting the first gun overboard.

They were so long that Jacka's boys had the after-pump pretty well to
themselves, and between spells one or two ran and fetched buckets,
making out 'twas for extra baling; and all seemed to be working like
niggers. But by-and-by they called out all together with one woeful
voice, "The pump is chucked! The pump is chucked!"

At this all the Frenchmen came running, the young officer leading, and
crying to know what was the matter.

"A heap of cinders got awash, sir," says Jacka. "The pump's clogged
wi' em, and won't work."

"Then we're lost men!" says the officer; and he caught hold by the
foremast, and leaned his face against it like a child.

This was Jacka's chance. "'Lost,' is it? Iss, I reckon you _be_
lost!--and inside o' ten minutes, unless you hearken to rayson. Here
you be, not twenty mile from the En