Wolf Larsen, at the wheel, directed the _Ghost_ after the _Macedonia's_ second weather boat.
Under way, and with nothing for the time being to do, I turned my attention to the situation of the boats.

The _Macedonia's_ third weather boat was being attacked by two of ours, the fourth by our remaining three; and the fifth, turn about, was taking a hand in the defence of its nearest mate.

The fight had opened at long distance, and the rifles were cracking steadily.

A quick, snappy sea was being kicked up by the wind, a condition which prevented fine shooting; and now and again, as we drew closer, we could see the bullets zip-zipping from wave to wave.
The boat we were pursuing had squared away and was running before the wind to escape us, and, in the course of its flight, to take part in repulsing our general boat attack.
Attending to sheets and tacks now left me little time to see what was taking place, but I happened to be on the poop when Wolf Larsen ordered the two strange sailors forward and into the forecastle.

They went sullenly, but they went.