Plying on between Scilly and Cape Clear, the Unprincipled—­which vessel somewhat outsailed her consorts—­fell in, just before dusk, with a large revenue cutter close to, and showing signals of distress.  At the moment, no other sail was in sight.

Cursing the necessity of pausing with a strong fair wind at a juncture like this, the officer-of-the-deck shortened sail, and hove to; hailing the cutter, to know what was the matter.  As he hailed the small craft from the lofty poop of the bristling seventy-four, this lieutenant seemed standing on the top of Gibraltar, talking to some lowland peasant in a hut.  The reply was, that in a sudden flaw of wind, which came nigh capsizing them, not an hour since, the cutter had lost all four foremost men by the violent jibing of a boom.  She wanted help to get back to port.

“You shall have one man,” said the officer-of-the-deck, morosely.

“Let him be a good one then, for heaven’s sake,” said he in the cutter; “I ought to have at least two.”

During this talk, Israel’s curiosity had prompted him to dart up the ladder from the main-deck, and stand right in the gangway above, looking out on the strange craft.  Meantime the order had been given to drop a boat.  Thinking this a favorable chance, he stationed himself so that he should be the foremost to spring into the boat; though crowds of English sailors, eager as himself for the same opportunity to escape from foreign service, clung to the chains of the as yet imperfectly disciplined man-of-war.  As the two men who had been lowered in the boat hooked her, when afloat, along to the gangway, Israel dropped like a comet into the stern-sheets, stumbled forward, and seized an oar.  In a moment more, all the oarsmen were in their places, and with a few strokes the boat lay alongside the cutter.

“Take which of them you please,” said the lieutenant in command, addressing the officer in the revenue-cutter, and motioning with his hand to his boat’s crew, as if they were a parcel of carcasses of mutton, of which the first pick was offered to some customer.  “Quick and choose.  Sit down, men”—­to the sailors.  “Oh, you are in a great hurry to get rid of the king’s service, ain’t you?  Brave chaps indeed!—­Have you chosen your man?”

All this while the ten faces of the anxious oarsmen looked with mute longings and appealings towards the officer of the cutter; every face turned at the same angle, as if managed by one machine.  And so they were.  One motive.

“I take the freckled chap with the yellow hair—­him,” pointing to Israel.

Nine of the upturned faces fell in sullen despair, and ere Israel could spring to his feet, he felt a violent thrust in his rear from the toes of one of the disappointed behind him.

“Jump, dobbin!” cried the officer of the boat.

But Israel was already on board.  Another moment, and the boat and cutter parted.  Ere long, night fell, and the man-of-war and her consorts were out of sight.