an ensign had ordered Peter Hemp into the waiting boat! Peter Hemp, big redheaded mate of the brig, Master Blythe's boyhood friend, had gone over the side: but his stricken glance had stabbed deep.
Master Blythe, indignant and helpless in the face of naked cutlasses, had redoubled his heated protests. He had shouted his rights and had come close to damning Britain; the king; and His Majesty's Royal Navy!
The smirking ensign had nodded and Master Blythe thought he had won his point! But the ensign had nodded to his burly bos'n who stood directly behind Master Blythe. The bos'n had swung his heavy sea boot. His kick took Master Blythe with unexpected suddenness. It lifted Master Blythe off the deck and sent him sailing through the open companion-way. Master Blythe and his protests had landed at the bottom of the ladder.
Master Blythe had straightened his crumpled spine, wiped the blood from his face and with painful effort had dragged himself back up the companion-way and across the deck. In spite of his native caution, Master Blythe had weakly clung to the rail, shouting and shaking his small fist at the Scorpion's retreating boat and the upright figure of the mocking ensign!
The brogans pounded close behind Master Blythe and a voice, hoarse with excitement, shouted:
"Cap'n Blythe! Have ye heard the news!"
Master Blythe frowned. For the past week he had been avoiding company. There was no news he wanted to hear. Master Blythe swung then, reluctantly, to face the panting arrival.
It was Old Ben Smith, gasping with exertion and hitching up his seaman's trousers. "Gor' blimey, Cap'n," he blurted. "The minute-men has chased the blasted Redcoats clean home from Concord!"
"What?" Master Blythe jerked bolt upright. "Aye! Yesterday it was! The Redcoats marched out of Boston better'n a thousand strong! They fired the first shot at Lexington! But the minute-men rallied at Concord, an' stopped 'em at Concord bridge! Then shootin' from every stump and wall, the minutemen chased the whole bloody gang back to Boston! Killed nigh onto three-four hunnerd of 'em!"
A cold thrill shivered through Master Blythe. He breathed deeply and exhaled a thoughtful: "Lord!"
"Newport's gone wild!" Old Ben hurried on. "They're breathin' rebellion! The minute-men are gatherin' an' they're goin' to march at once and help lay siege to Boston! Never did see so many muskets!"
"Muskets!" Master Blythe's eyes swept back to the anchored Scorpion. Behind those ports were the muzzles of shotted cannon—Master Blythe's quick elation left him. "Muskets can't sink ships-of-war, Ben."
Perplexity knotted Old Ben's weathered face. "Huh? Wha's that?"
Gloom clouded Master Blythe's eyes. Minute-men could kill Redcoats, but it took cannon to sink a man-of-war! It was all very well for minute-men to go marching to Boston but sailors belonged on the sea—and if the Colonies went to war England would bottle up every port on the Atlantic. Master Blythe pointed to the Scorpion. "England has three hundred and fifty of those ships! We'd never get a cargo out of port. We'd starve!"
Old Ben's neck swelled as Master
