of a strong guard, the _Saigon's_ coal and cargo into the
_Nevski's_ boats.

Captain Brandon was not among the toilers. He would have been, perhaps,
but for the circumstance that he had permitted himself the liberty of
striking a Russian officer in the face. A marine having retorted with
the butt end of a carbine, the Englishmen had helplessly watched their
captain being carried off, bleeding and insensible, and dumped with a
sickening thud into the Russian launch. The incident encouraged them so
much that they worked without complaint throughout the day, and they did
not even grumble at the rations which their taskmasters served out to
them. Shortly before dusk the breeze that had been blowing died away,
and the Russians took advantage of the calm to warp the vessels
together. After that the business in hand proceeded at such a pace that
by dawn the _Saigon_ was completely gutted, and she rode the water like
a swan, the greater part of her bulk in air. The weary Englishmen were
thereupon driven like sheep upon the _Nevski's_ deck, and forced to
descend the small after-hold, which was almost empty. The hatches were
then fastened over them for their greater security, and they were left
in darkness. But they were too worn out to care. Within five minutes
every man of them was sleeping dreamlessly, lying listlessly stretched
out upon the ship's false bottom, excepting only Hugh Maclean. He was
too tired to sleep. He was, therefore, the only one who heard an hour
later the muffled boom of a distant explosion and a faint cheer on deck.

"They have sunk the poor old _Saigon_," muttered Maclean. "There goes
the last hope of my captaincy and Nellie Lane." He uttered a low groan,
and covered his face with his grimy paws. Maclean was very much in love,
but he was too young and of too strenuous a temperament to rest for long
the victim of despair. Moreover, contempt for foreigners, particularly
Russians, served him instead of a religion, when not ashore, and he soon
fell to wondering just where was the weak spot in his captor's armor,
and how he could find and put his finger on it. That there was a weak
spot he did not doubt at all. He searched his pockets and found half a
plug of tobacco, but not his meerschaum. A Russian sailor had
confiscated that some hours before. Maclean consigned the thief to
perdition, and with some trouble bit off a plug. Then he lay back to
chew and think. "There's only one thing to do," was the result