the true ring of heartiness that
usually characterised such attempts, and it was speedily nipped in the
bud by Gowland, the master's mate, who gruffly recommended the offenders
to "say their prayers and then go to sleep, instead of talking
nonsense." Though I was not one of the offenders I took his advice,
earnestly commending myself to the mercy and protection of the Almighty,
both in the coming conflict and throughout the rest of my life, should
it please Him to spare it, after which I sank quickly into a deep,
untroubled sleep.

CHAPTER THREE.

THE NIGHT ATTACK.

From this sleep I was aroused--in a few minutes, it seemed to me,
although really it was nearly two hours later--by a boisterous banging
upon the mess-table, followed by the voice of the marine who executed
the functions of steward to the mess, exclaiming--

"`All hands,' gentlemen, please! The captain and the first liftenant is
already on deck."

This was followed by the rasping scrape of a lucifer match, by the
feeble light of which the man's face was seen bending over the lantern
which he was endeavouring to light.

"Ay, ay, Jerry, look alive with the lantern, man!" responded the
master's mate. "What is the night like?" he continued, as he swung
himself out of his hammock and hastily proceeded to thrust his long legs
into his breeches.

"Dark as pitch, sir; blowing more than half a gale of wind, and
threatening rain," was the cheering answer.

"A pleasant prospect, truly," muttered Good, my especial chum, as we
jostled each other in the confined space wherein we were struggling into
our clothing.

"It might be worse, however," responded Gowland, as he knotted a black
silk handkerchief tightly about his loins. "The darkness and the roar
of the wind among the trees will help capitally to mask our approach,
while I dare say that the craft which we are going to attack will be in
such a snug berth that nobody will think it worth while to keep a
look-out, blow high or blow low. I say, Pierrepoint, are you told off
for the boats?"

Pierrepoint intimated that he was.

"Then put that rubbishy toasting-fork away and get a cutlass, boy, as
Dugdale has. Of what use do you suppose a dirk would be in a
hand-to-hand fight with a great burly Spaniard? Why, none at all. I
can't understand, for my part, why such useless tools are supplied for
active service! Get a good honest cutlass, boy; something that you can
trust your life to. And look sh