without saying anything offensive to the
British merchant service. Nowadays such an observation about "Dutchmen"
would be a personal insult to four-fifths of the crew of a British
merchant ship.

The men, including the mate, received the speech with a cheer, and one
of them sang out "Haul down the Stars and Stripes. We don't want to
fight under that."

To which Captain Foster, who knew what he was about, merely replied, "I
am not a fool!"

Towards the close of the afternoon the ships were within gunshot of each
other, and the Dutchman ran up his colours. As they drew closer, the
foreign skipper's glass showed him the nationality of the _Policy_ and
he at once opened fire upon her with one of his six eighteen-pounders.

As the shot hummed overhead between the _Policy's_ fore and main masts,
down came the American colours and up went the British ensign, and at
the same moment Foster fired such of his guns as bore upon the enemy.

As soon as the report of the guns had died away, Foster sprang into one
of his quarter-boats and hailed the other ship.

"Ship ahoy!" he roared "why do you fire at me?"

"Ha, ha! I know you," came back in mocking tones. "Now vill I sendt
you to der tuyvel, you greasy valer mans. I am Captain Portveldt, und
dis is der _Swift_. Vill you surrunder, or vill I smash you to beices?"

For answer, Foster, who had now come very close to his enemy, fired his
tiny broadside, his men, sick as they were running cheerfully from the
guns to the braces to manoeuvre the Polity clear of the privateer's
fire, and then back again to the guns.

The sun had now set, but far into the darkness of the tropical night the
running fight continued, Foster always out-manouvring the Dutchman, and
the crews of both vessels, when they closed near enough to be heard,
cursing and mocking at each other. Owing to the darkness and the
extremely bad gunnery on both sides, little blood was spilt, and the
damage done was mostly confined to the sails and rigging. Now and then a
eighteen-pound shot hulled the _Policy_, and one went clean through her
amidships. Suddenly, for some cause or other, about midnight, a light
was shown in the privateer's stern, and Foster's second mate at once
sent a lucky shot at it, with the result that the six-pound ball so
damaged the _Swift's_ rudder that she became unmanageable. And then, a
few minutes later, another shot dismounted one of her guns by striking
it on the muzzle, and ere the Dutchm