CATCHING A TARTAR!
"THE hound!" ejaculated Old Negus angrily, as he made a jump for the
_Frolic's_ tiller. "Furriners they be poachers. Up for'ard, lad, and
when I gives the word, let go the anchor."
Unable to realise the meaning of the skipper's order Brandon
clambered on to the foredeck. Steadying himself by the forestay with
one hand he lifted the anchor, already stocked, with the other.
Then he waited, hanging on like grim death as the _Frolic_ pitched
and plunged in the bow-wave of the steamer.
Putting the helm hard down Old Negus threw the _Frolic_ into the
wind. Relieved of the drag of the trawl she answered her helm so
readily that she cut the drifter's track close under the latter's
counter.
"Let go!" yelled Old Negus.
Splash went the anchor. Fathom after fathom of chain ran out until
Brandon got the word to belay.
A succession of jerks announced that the anchor was obtaining a
series of temporary and insecure holds. Then Brandon grasped the
situation.
_The anchor was ripping the drifter's nets._
"Come aft!" shouted Old Negus. "There'll be a tur'ble jerk when the
hook brings up agen her trawl-beam."
"The fat's in the fire with a vengeance this time," thought Frank,
as he leapt into the well. "I wonder what will happen now?"
He was not left long in doubt. Although the drifter was making a
bare three knots owing to the drag of a fifty feet beam and a ton or
more of nets, the sudden strain as the _Frolic's_ anchor jammed
against the trawl-beam well-nigh capsized Brandon.
Round swung the _Frolic_, towed by the craft that had so
deliberately cut away Old Negus's gear.
"Belgian or Frenchie, that's what she be," declared the old
fisherman. "Poachin' inside the three-mile limit. Now us knows why
there bain't much fish on the Silverknoll Bank."
"What are we going to do now?" asked Brandon rather anxiously.
"Do?" repeated Old Negus. "Jus' hang on till daylight, if needs
must. If they cut their trawl adrift then we'll collar it. Fair
exchange it'll be. If not, they can tow us till they're fair fed up.
Wish I could see 'er name."
"I've a torch in my haversack," announced Brandon. "Thought it might
come in handy."
By this time the crew of the drifter had made the disconcerting
discovery that the insignificant English fishing boat whose nets
they had wantonly cut was now playing havoc with their gear.
A volley of abuse was directed upon the _Frolic_, together with a
command to "Cut ze hawsair or ve sink you."
The beam of Brandon's torch played upon the drifter. On her counter,
showing up distinctly in the bright light, were the words,
"_Marie-Celeste_, Ostende." Over the taffrail were half a dozen men
gesticulating and shouting.
"Signal ashore," said Old Negus. "P'raps coastguards over agin
Broken Point'll spot it."
Brandon needed no second bidding. Rapidly he Morsed a message
stating the plight of the _Frolic_, and requesting assistance.
The Belgians broke into another and more vigorous howl of anger at
seeing the dots and dashes. Old Negus laughed as light-heartedly as
a boy.
"They dursn't go astern," he observed. "'Fraid of fouling their
propeller, they be. An' they don't want to cut adrift their gear.
We've got 'em fixed, boy."
"I hope so," agreed Brandon, fired by the enthusiasm and doggedness
of his companion.
The drifter's next manoeuvre was to put her helm hard a-port.
Hitherto she had been standing in towards the land and was already
within a mile and a half of Broken Point. Unless she swung round
through at least eight or ten points she would soon be aground in
shoal water.
But Old Negus had anticipated this change. Directly the Belgian
ported helm he ported, with the result that the _Frolic_ took a wide
sheer to starboard.
Impeded by the drag of her gear and the additional resistance
offered by the fishing smack, the _Marie-Celeste_ simply would not
answer to her helm.
The crew, beginning to realise that they had caught a Tartar, were
frantic with rage.
"Keep on a-signalling," ordered Old Negus. "Happen you can't see no
light ashore?"
Brandon had to confess that up to the present his signals were
unanswered.
Just then the _Marie-Celeste's_ engine-room telegraph bell clanged.
After a brief interval her propeller ceased to revolve. Quickly she
lost way.
The _Frolic_, still holding on, decreased her distance to about
fifty yards.
"What----?" began the Patrol-leader, but Old Negus held up his hand.
"Listen!" he exclaimed.
They could hear unmistakable sounds of a boat being swung out from
the Belgian drifter. The squeaking of the davits as they were turned
outboard, the rattle of the fall-blocks and the clatter of oars
being shifted as one of the men fumbled for the plug, told their own
tale.
"Boy!" exclaimed Old Negus. "Me an' you's going to make a fight for
it."
"Righto!" agreed Brandon.