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"Back the mizzen tops'l, Mr. Hubbard, if you please. Brig ahoy! Have you struck?"

"Yes, God rot you," said a voice in the darkness.

"Take the quarterboat and take possession, O'Brien. Send the captain over to me."

"Aye aye, sir."

The wounded man on board the brig had stopped screaming as the quarterboat dropped into the water. Peabody took a restless turn or two about the deck--the two vessels were close enough together by now for him to hear voices on board the brig, and the sound of the oars being laid down in the boat as she went alongside.

"Mr. Hubbard, take charge. I want a boatswain's chair to hoist the brig's captain in."

Lights gleamed at the entry port, the sound of oars proclaimed the return of the quarterboat, and the tackles squealed as the brig's captain was hoisted on board. Someone led him aft to where Peabody stood in the faint light of the uncovered binnacle; he was short and square and stocky, with a stiff rheumatic gait. Peabody took off his hat. "Your servant, sir."