ass again,
and while he was busy scanning the boat as it kissed the water and the
oars fell over the side, Joe Cross came up behind him and made him
start.

"Well, sir," he said, "what do you make of her now?"

"Nothing, Joe," said the boy, "only that it seems a very nice brig."

"Very, sir, and well-manned. Look at that."

"What?" asked the boy.

"That there boat they've lowered down, and how she's manned. She's no
merchantman. Look at the way they are rowing. Why, they're like
men-of-war's men, every one. I don't like the looks of she, and if the
old skipper don't get overhauling her with them there eyes of his I'm a
Dutchman; and that's what I ain't."

"Ah, you make mountains of molehills, Joe," said Rodd.

"Maybe, sir; maybe. But I suppose it's all a matter of eddication and
training to keep watch. There, you see, it's always have your eyes
open, night or day. For a man as goes to sea on board a man-of-war,
meaning a King's ship, has to see enemies wherever they are and wherever
they aren't, for even if there bean't none, a chap has to feel that
there might be, and if he's let anything slip without seeing on it, why,
woe betide him! There y'are, sir! Look at that there boat. You have
hung about Plymouth town and seen things enough there to know as that
there aren't a merchant brig."

"Well, she doesn't look like a merchant's shore boat, certainly," said
Rodd, with his eyes still glued to the end of the telescope.

"Right, sir," cried Joe Cross. "Well, then, sir, as she aren't a
merchant brig's boat, and the brig herself aren't a man-of-war, perhaps
you will tell me what she is? You can't, sir?"

"No, Joe."

"No more can I, sir; but if we keeps our eyes open I dare say we shall
see."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

IN THE FRENCH PORT.

In spite of the knocking about by the storm, the schooner was none the
worse, and in the course of the day as the weather rapidly settled down
and the western gale seemed to have blown itself out, while the sailors
had been busy swabbing the rapidly drying planks, and, the wind having
fallen, shaking out the saturated sails to dry, Uncle Paul strolled with
his nephew up and down the deck, waiting till the skipper seemed to be
less busy before going up to him.

"Well," said Uncle Paul; "are we damaged at all?"

"Not a bit," was the gruff reply. "It's done her good--stretched her
ropes and got the canvas well in shape."

"But how do you feel about the schoone