CHAPTER VII.
DEFYING A FRIGATE.
"I wonder what's up now ?" said White Baldwin, in a troubled tone, as he watched the approaching man-of-war's boat.
"Mischief of some kind," growled David Gidge, as he spat fiercely into the water.

"I hain't never knowed a Frencher to be good fur nawthin' else but mischief." "Perhaps it's a health officer," suggested Cabot.
"It's worse than that," replied White.
"A customs officer, then ?" "He comes from the shore." "Then perhaps it's an invitation for us to go and dine with the French captain ?" "I've no doubt it's an invitation of some kind, and probably one that is meant to be accepted." At this juncture the French boat dashed alongside, and, without leaving his place, the lieutenant in command said in fair English: "Is not zat ze boat of Monsieur Baldwin of Pretty Harbour on ze cote Francaise ?" "It is," replied the young skipper, curtly.
"You haf, of course, ze papaire of health, and ze papaire of clearance for St.Pierre ?" "No; I have no papers except a certificate of registry." "Ah! Is it possible?
In zat case ze commandant of ze frigate 'Isla' will be please to see you on board at your earlies' convenience." "I thought so," said White, in a low tone.

Then aloud, he replied: "All right, lieutenant.

I'll sail over there, and hunt up a good place to anchor, just beyond your ship, and as soon as I've made all snug I'll come aboard.

Up with your mud hook, Dave." As Mr.Gidge began to work the windlass, Cabot sprang to help him, and, within a minute, the recently dropped anchor was again broken out.
Then, at a sharp order, David hoisted and trimmed the jib, leaving Cabot to cat the anchor.