and she gammoned me. The skipper's had her streak
painted out, and a lot of her tackle cast loose, to make her look like a
lubberly trader; but it's the frigate, as I made out at last, coming
down with a spanking breeze, and in an hour's time she'll be close
enough to send her men ashore."

The Captain sprang up and caught his son's hand, to ring it hard.

"Huzza, Nic!" he cried excitedly. "This is going to be a night of
nights."

It was.

CHAPTER NINE.

READY FOR ACTION.

"That's about their size, Master Nic," said Solly, as he stood in the
coach-house balancing a heavy cudgel in his hand--one of a couple of
dozen lying on the top of the corn-bin just through the stable door.

"Oh, the size doesn't matter, Bill," said Nic impatiently.

"Begging your pardon, sir, it do," said the old sailor severely. "You
don't want to kill nobody in a fight such as we're going to have, do
ye?"

"No, no; of course not."

"There you are, then. Man's sure to hit as hard as he can when his
monkey's up; and that stick's just as heavy as you can have 'em without
breaking bones. That's the sort o' stick as'll knock a man silly and
give him the headache for a week, and sarve him right. If it was
half-a-hounce heavier it'd kill him."

"How do you know?" said Nic sharply.

"How do I know, sir?" said the man wonderingly. "Why, I weighed it."

Nic would have asked for further explanations; but just then there were
steps heard in the yard, and the gardener and a couple of labourers came
up in the dusk.

"Oh, there you are," growled Solly. "Here's your weepuns;" and he
raised three of the cudgels. "You may hit as hard as you like with
them. Seen any of the others?"

"Yes," said the gardener; "there's two from the village coming along the
road, and three of us taking the short cut over the home field. That's
all I see."

"Humph!" said Solly. "There ought to be five more by this time."

"Sick on it, p'r'aps," grumbled the gardener; "and no wonder. We are."

"What! Are you afraid?" cried Nic.

"No, sir, I aren't afraid; on'y sick on it. I like a good fight, and so
do these here when it's 'bout fair and ekal, but every time we has a go
in t'other side seems to be the flails and we only the corn and straw.
They're too many for us. I'm sick o' being thrashed, and so's these
here; and that aren't being afraid."

"Why, you aren't going to sneak out of it, are you?" growled Solly.

"No, I aren't," said the gar