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Three miles before her, with all sails set, including staysail

and balloon-job, raced a fishing schooner. There was a fresh

ten-knot wind blowing a little south of west--a wind that favored

the schooner, and she was putting her best foot forward, taking

the green water over her bows in a smother of foam.

"Heavens! look at her go!"

The exclamation was one of pure delight in the speed.

"Maybe she's an American that's been caught inside the three-mile

limit, and is pullin' away from the gunboat," remarked Pete.

That she was pulling away there was little doubt. In the fifteen

minutes that elapsed after her discovery she had widened the gap

between herself and her pursuer. She was now within a mile of the

Lass.

"Why doesn't she shoot?"

As Code spoke a puff of white smoke thrust out from the blunt

bows of the cutter, and the ball ricochetted from wave-top to

wave-top to fall half a mile astern of the schooner.