on our weather beam and standing straight across our bows," was
the encouraging response from aloft.

"Can you make her out?" asked the captain, preparing to mount to the
crosstrees with a spy-glass in his hand. "You're sure she isn't a
cruiser?"

"No, sir. She's a brig, and she's running along with everything set."

"Then we must cut her off or she'll get away from us. Put a
fifteen-second shell in that bow gun, Tierney! Stand by the color
halliards, Marcy!"

These orders were obeyed with an "Ay, ay, sir," although the brig was
yet so far away that she could not be seen from the deck; but as the two
vessels were sailing diagonally toward each other, she did not long
remain invisible. The moment Marcy caught sight of her top-hamper, and
while he stood with the halliards in his hand waiting for the order to
run up the Stars and Stripes, Captain Beardsley began swearing most
lustily and shouting orders to his mates, the sheets were let out, the
helm put down, and the privateer fell off four or five points. Marcy
knew the meaning of this before the excited and angry Beardsley yelled,
at the top of his voice:

"The rascal is trying to dodge us. He's got lookouts aloft. Run up that
flag, Marcy, and see if that won't quiet his feelings. Them war ships
down to Hatteras have posted him, and if we don't handle ourselves just
right we'll never bring him within range."

Marcy lost no time in running up the old flag; but if the master of the
brig saw it he was not deceived by it. He showed no disposition to run
back to Hatteras, and put himself under protection of the war ships
there, as Marcy thought and hoped he would, but put his vessel before
the wind, squared his yards, and trusted to his heels. It looked to
Marcy like a most desperate undertaking, for you will remember that the
schooner was far ahead of the brig, and that the merchant captain was
about to run by her. It didn't seem possible that he could succeed, but
the sequel proved that he knew just what his vessel was capable of
doing. She came up at a "hand gallop," and finally showed herself from
water-line to main-truck in full view of the privateer's crew. Her
canvas loomed up like a great white cloud, and her low, black hull, by
comparison, looked no bigger than a lead pencil. She went like the wind,
and Marcy Gray told himself that she was the most beautiful object he
had ever seen.

"I hope from the bottom of my heart that she will get away," was the one