ich flew from his main truck, and made no motion to
pull it down.

"Blow your matches, boys," roared Colonel Stuart from his station in the
waist of the _King George_. "Five minutes' grace, no more."

Captain Wellsby said to wait a little. The pirates were endeavoring to
quit the snow. And presently Rackham appeared to change his own purpose.
No longer ignoring the _King George_, he doffed his hat in a graceful
flourish and bowed with a mocking obeisance. Then he strolled to the
cabin hatch and went below, presumably to get a change of clothing or
something of the sort. But he failed to reappear and his men were in a
frenzy of haste, with one boat already in the water.

So incensed was Colonel Stuart by the insolent refusal of Ned Rackham to
strike his colors in token of surrender that he gave orders to fire at
the mainmast and try to bring it down. An instant before the starboard
battery thundered, the snow seemed to fly upwards in a tremendous
explosion. The masts were flung out of her and the hull opened like a
shattered basket. So violent was the shock that men were thrown to the
deck of the _King George_ and she quivered as though her bows had
rammed a reef. Black smoke spouted as from a crater and debris rained
down on a boiling sea.

A few survivors, scorched or half-stunned, were clinging to bits of
wreckage and wailing for succor. Where the snow had floated was a
discolored eddy, broken timbers, a lather of dirty foam. Captain
Jonathan Wellsby picked himself up, rubbed a bump on his head, and gazed
wildly at the tragic scene. Collecting his wits, he exclaimed:

"That 'ud be like Ned Rackham, to blow up the ship sooner than be taken
and hanged. More than likely he had the train all laid to the powder
barrels."

"He saved us a lot of trouble," said Colonel Stuart as he climbed to the
poop. "A fellow of iron will and courage, this Rackham, by all accounts.
I have conceived a respect for him."

"I forgive him his sins," replied the skipper. "Now, lads, boats away,
and fish up those dying wretches."

Joe Hawkridge emitted a jubilant whoop and dived over the rail without
waiting for a boat. He had caught a glimpse of a feeble swimmer whose
square, solid features and bushy brows were familiar. It was Peter
Tobey, the carpenter's mate, who had befriended him on the cay and who
had set adrift that miraculous cask of food and water. A few strokes and
Joe was at his side, clutching him by the neck-band and towing