So he fetched out his frying-pan and plenty sausages and fried away for dear life—­with butter too, which was ruinous waste.  He shared round the sausages, two to each man, and kept the Bean Pheasant to her course until the leading frigate fired a shot across her bows, and ran up the red-white-and-blue; and then, knowing the worst, he rounded-to as meek as a lamb.

The long and short of it was that, inside the hour the dozen Frenchmen were free, and Cap’n Jacka and his men in their place, ironed hand and foot; and the Bean Pheasant working back to France again with a young gentleman of the French navy aboard in command of her.

But ’tis better be lucky born, they say, than a rich man’s son.  By this time it was blowing pretty well half a gale from sou’-sou’-west, and before midnight a proper gale.  The Bean Pheasant being kept head to sea, took it smack-and-smack on the breast-bone, which was her leakiest spot; and soon, being down by the head, made shocking weather of it.  ’Twas next door to impossible to work the pump forward.  Towards one in the morning old Jacka was rolling about up to his waist as he sat, and trying to comfort himself by singing “Tho’ troubles assail,” when the young French gentleman came running with one of his Johnnies and knocked the irons off the English boys, and told them to be brisk and help work the pumps, or the lugger—­that was already hove to—­would go down under them.

“But where be you going?” he sings out—­or French to that effect.  For Jacka was moving aft towards the cuddy there.

Jacka fetched up his best smuggling French, and answered:  “This here lugger is going down.  Any fool can see that, as you’re handling her.  And I’m going down on a full stomach.”

With that he reached an arm into the cuddy, where he’d stacked his provisions that evening on top of the frying-pan.  But the labouring of the ship had knocked everything there of a heap, and instead of the frying-pan he caught hold of his wife’s cinder-sifter.

At that moment the Frenchman ran up behind and caught him a kick.  “Come out o’ that, you old villain, and fall in at the after pump!” said he.

“Aw, very well,” said Jack, turning at once—­for the cinder-sifter had given him a bright idea; and he went right aft to his comrades.  By this time the Frenchmen were busy getting the first gun overboard.

They were so long that Jacka’s boys had the after-pump pretty well to themselves, and between spells one or two ran and fetched buckets, making out ’twas for extra baling; and all seemed to be working like niggers.  But by-and-by they called out all together with one woeful voice, “The pump is chucked!  The pump is chucked!”

At this all the Frenchmen came running, the young officer leading, and crying to know what was the matter.

“A heap of cinders got awash, sir,” says Jacka.  “The pump’s clogged wi’ em, and won’t work.”