The Chevalier Bayard was nothing more, only he had a wider field for his exertions and his talents; but the armed and accoutred Bayard did not show more courage and conduct when leading armies to victory, than did the unarmed Smallbones against Vanslyperken and his dog.  We consider that in his way, Smallbones was quite as great a hero as the Chevalier, for no man can do more than his best; indeed, it is unreasonable to expect it.

While Smallbones hung on to the corks, he was calculating his chances of being saved.

“If so be as how they comes to take up the nets in the morning, why then I think I may hold on; but if so be they waits, why they’ll then find me dead as a fish,” said Smallbones, who seldom ventured above a monosyllable, and whose language if not considered as pure English, was certainly amazingly Saxon; and then Smallbones began to reflect, whether it was not necessary that he should forgive Mr Vanslyperken before he died, and his pros and cons ended with his thinking he could, for it was his duty; however he would not be in a hurry about it, he thought that was the last thing that he need do; but as for the dog, he wa’n’t obliged to forgive him that was certain—­as certain as that his tail was off; and Smallbones, up to his chin in the water, grinned so at the remembrance, that he took in more salt water than was pleasant.

He spit it out again, and then looked up to the stars, which were twinkling above him.

I wonder what o’clock it is, thought Smallbones, when he thought he heard a distant sound.  Smallbones pricked up his ears and listened;—­yes, it was in regular cadence, and became louder and louder.  It was a boat pulling.

“Well, I am sure,” thought Smallbones, “they’ll think they have caught a queer fish anyhow:”  and he waited very patiently for the fisherman to come up.  At last he perceived the boat, which was very long and pulled many oars.  “They be the smuglars,” thought Smallbones.

“I wonder whether they’ll pick up a poor lad?  Boat ahoy!”

The boat continued to pass towards the coast, impelled at the speed of seven or eight miles an hour, and was now nearly abreast of Smallbones, and not fifty yards from him.

“I say, boat ahoy!” screamed Smallbones, to the extent of his voice.

He was heard this time, and there was a pause in the pulling, the boat still driving through the water with the impulse which had been given her, as if she required no propelling power.

“I say you arn’t a going for to come for to leave a poor lad here to be drowned, are you?”

“That’s Smallbones, I’ll swear,” cried Jemmy Ducks, who was steering the boat, and who immediately shifted the helm.

But Sir Robert Barclay paused; there was too much at stake to run any risk, even to save the life of a fellow-creature.

“You takes time for to think on it anyhow,” cried Smallbones—­“you are going for to leave a fellow-christian stuck like a herring in a fishing net, are you? you would not like it yourself, anyhow.”