It would have been an ugly fall for the lieutenant, for according to the wholesome custom observed by most mechanics, the carpenter had turned the damaged hatchway into a very pleasant kind of pitfall, such as the gentle mild Hindoo might have dug for his enemy the crafty tiger, with its arrangements for impaling whatever fell.

In this case Chips had all the ragged and jagged pieces of plank carefully stuck point upwards, with a couple of augers, a chisel or two, and a fair amount of gimlets and iron spike-like nails, so that it would have been impossible for his officer have fallen without receiving one or two ugly wounds.

Just in the nick of time, however, Jack Brown, the boatswain, darted forward and gave the lieutenant a tremendous push, which sent him clear of the opening in the deck, but in a sitting position under the bulwark, against which his head went with a goodly rap.

“Mutiny, by Jove!” he roared, in astonished fury.  “Marines, fix bayonets!  Run that scoundrel through.”

“Beg your honour’s pardon,” began Jack Brown, offering his hand to assist the astonished commander to rise.

“It’s a lie, sir!  How dare you say it was an accident?” cried the lieutenant, struggling up and readjusting the handkerchief tied round his injured head, and his cocked hat over that.  “It’s mutiny, sir, rank mutiny.  You struck your officer, sir, and you’ll be shot.  Corporal, take this man below.  In irons, sir, in irons.”

“But your honour would have gone through the hole squelch on to the lower deck,” growled Jack Brown in an injured tone.

“Silence, sir,” roared the lieutenant.  “Corporal, do your duty.”

“All right, corpy, I’m coming,” said the boatswain, as the marine laid his hand upon his arm.  “But the skipper may fall overboard and drown hisself next time, afore I gives him a helping hand.”

“Mutiny! mutiny!” cried the lieutenant.  “Do you hear, Mr Leigh?  The ship’s crew are in open mutiny, and uttering threats.  Fetch my pistols, sir,” he cried, drawing his sword.  “Cut down the first man who utters another word.  Do you hear, Mr Leigh?  Quick! my pistols!”

“If you please, your honour,” began Billy Waters, pulling his forelock and giving a kick out behind.

“Si-lence!” roared the lieutenant.  “Here, marines, come on my side.  I’ll cut down the next man who dares to speak.  Have you got the pistols, Mr Leigh?”

Of course there was no answer.

“I say, have you got my pistols, Mr Leigh?” cried the lieutenant again.

Still there was silence, and in his fury the lieutenant thrust the bandage up from over his inflamed eye, and tried to see what was going on.

Truth to speak, he was as blind as an owl in broad sunshine; but in his irritable frame of mind he would not own it, even to himself, and pushing the bandage higher he tilted off his cocked hat, which fell with a bang on the deck, and in trying to save his hat he struck himself on the jaw with the hilt of his sword, and dropped that in turn, to fall with a ringing noise on the whitened planks.

“Confusion!” he exclaimed as the corporal picked up hat and sword in turn, and handed them to the irate officer, whose temper was in no wise sweetened by this last upset.  “Ha! thank you, Mr Leigh, you are very polite all at once,” he cried sarcastically, as he stared at the corporal, who stood before him drawn up stiff as a ramrod, but representing nothing but a blurred figure before the inflamed optic of the lieutenant.  “Well, sir!  Now, sir! perhaps you will condescend to give some explanation of your conduct.  Silence, there!  If any man of this crew dares to speak I’ll cut him down.  Now, Mr Leigh, I call upon you for an explanation.”

No answer, of course.

“Do you hear what I say, sir?”

The corporal did not stir or move a muscle.

“Once more, sir, I demand why you do not explain your conduct,” cried the lieutenant.

The corporal drew himself up a little tighter, and his eyes were fixed upon the bright blade quivering in the lieutenant’s hand.

“Speak, sir.  It’s mutiny by all the articles of war,” roared the lieutenant, taking a step forward, seizing the corporal by the collar, and presenting at his throat the point of the sword.

“Mind my eyes, your honour,” cried the corporal, flinching; “I ain’t Mr Leigh.”

“Where is he then?” cried the astonished lieutenant.

“Your honour won’t cut me down if I speak?” said the corporal.

“No, no,” said the lieutenant, lowering the point of his sword; “where is Mr Leigh?”

“Ain’t come aboard, sir.”

“Not come aboard?  Here, Waters!”

The gunner trotted forward, pulled his forelock and kicked out his right leg behind.

“Where is Mr Leigh?”

The gunner pulled his forelock again, kicked out his left leg, and as he bobbed his head, his pigtail went up and came down again flop between his shoulders as if it were a long knocker.

“I say, where is Mr Leigh?  You mutinous scoundrel, why don’t you speak?”

“Honour said you’d cut me down if I did.”

“Rubbish!  Nonsense!  Tell me, where is Mr Leigh?”

“Don’t know, your honour.”

“Don’t know, sir?  What do you mean?”

“Please your honour, we’d found tracks, as we thought, of the smugglers’ lugger, and then Mr Leigh lost us.  No; I mean, your honour, we lost him.  No, he lost ­I say, Tom Tully, my lad, which way weer it?”

Tom Tully grunted, gave his trousers a hitch, and looked at the lieutenant’s sword.

“Well, sir, do you hear?” cried the lieutenant; “how was it?”

“Stow all cuttin’s down,” grumbled Tom Tully, putting his hand behind so as to readjust the fall of his pigtail.

“Will ­you ­speak ­out ­you ­ras-cal?” cried the lieutenant.

“Don’t know, your honour,” growled Tom Tully; “only as Muster Leigh went off.”

“There, I thought as much!” cried the lieutenant.  “Deserted his men, and gone off.”

“Please your honour, I don’t think as ­”

“Silence!” cried the lieutenant, so fiercely that Billy Waters gave up the young officer’s defence, and shut his teeth together with a loud snap like that of a trap.

“All hands ’bout ship!” cried the lieutenant.  “He’ll be coming back presently, and signalling for a boat to fetch him off, but he shall come on to Portsmouth and make his report to the admiral.”

The great mainsail swung over to the other side, and the breeze favouring, the squaresail was set as well, and the Kestrel, so late helpless on shore, began to skim over the surface of the water at a tremendous rate, while the lieutenant, having given his orders as to which way the cutter’s head should be laid, went down to the cabin to bathe his painful eye, having told one of the men to bring him some warm water from the galley.

The man he told happened to be Tom Tully, and as he stood by, ready to fetch more if it should be wanted, the bathing seemed to allay the irritation, so that the commander grew less angry, and condescended to ask a few questions.  Then he began to think of the Kestrel having been ashore, the state of her deck about the fore-hatchway, and the late encounter, all of which he would have to minutely describe to the admiral if he ran into harbour to report Hilary Leigh’s evasion.

Then, as he grew more comfortable, he began to think that perhaps, after all, the young man had not run off.  Furthermore, as he owned that he was an indefatigable young officer, he came to the conclusion that perhaps Leigh might have discovered further traces of the smugglers, and, if so, it would be wrong to leave him in the lurch, especially as a good capture might be made, and with it a heap of prize-money.

“And besides, I’ll give fifty pounds to run up against that scoundrel who led me into that trap.”

A little more bathing made the lieutenant see so much more clearly, mentally as well as optically, that he went on deck and repeated his former orders of “’Bout ship,” with the result that the Kestrel was once more gently gliding along off the cliff-bound stretch of land where Hilary Leigh had fallen into strange hands.