“State your price,” said the genial agent; “anything within reason will be paid.”

The captain was as eager to do a deal as his new acquaintance, though he pleaded the almost impossible task of running out of the port without being observed, and if observed the inevitable consequence of being sunk, probably with all on board.  The agent, having in mind his own considerable interest, played discreetly on the vanity of the commander, and laughed at the notion of an astute person like him allowing himself to be trapped; appealed to his nationality, and the glory of having run out of a port that was severely blockaded.  The captain cut this flow of greasy oratory short by stating that for the moment he was thinking of the amount of hard cash he was going to get, and not of the glory.

“I know what I will have to do, and I think I know how it will have to be done; but first let us fix the amount I am to have for doing it.  My price is L——.  Do you agree?”

“Yes,” said the agent; “though it’s a bit stiff.  But the animals must go forward.”

The captain did not expect so sudden a confirmation, and remarked, “I fancy I have not put sufficient value on the services I am to carry out; but I have given my word, and will keep it.”

In due course the money was handed over in British gold.  The cattle were taken aboard, and just as the sun was setting the moorings were cast off, and the vessel proceeded to the outer harbour and anchored.  The chief mate was instructed to put as little chain as possible out, and the engineer was told to have a good head of steam at a certain hour.  Meanwhile, the captain proceeded to the city to clear his ship, and at the stated hour he was stealthily rowed alongside.  The pawls of the windlass were muffled, and the anchor was hove noiselessly up by hand; the engines were set easy ahead, and as soon as she was on her course the telegraph rang “full speed.”  She had not proceeded far before a shot was fired from the inner gunboat, which landed alongside the starboard quarter.  The chief officer called from the forecastle head—­

“They are firing at us—­hadn’t you better stop?”

“Stop, be d——­d!  Do you want to be hung or sent to the Siberian mines?”

The next shot fell short of the stern.  They now came thick and heavy, but the Claverhouse by this time was racing away, and was quickly out of range.  The most critical time arrived when she was rushed headlong over the line of torpedoes; and as soon as the outer gunboat was opened clear of the breakwater, she, too, commenced to fire.  Once the line of mines was safely passed, the course was set to hug the land.  The firing from the torpedo gunboat was wildly inaccurate, never a shot coming within fathoms of their target, and soon the little steamer was far beyond the reach of the Tsar’s guns.