“No, no, capitan, you must not do that!  Come to the charthouse and you shall be paid at once.”

After three-fourths of the agreed sum had been counted out the paymaster stuck, and said, “Capitan, you must be satisfied.  We are poor men like yourself.”

In an instant the captain was out of the charthouse with his money, and went on to the upper bridge and called out to his officers to see the gentlemen into their boat.  They pleaded to him to come into the charthouse again, and every cent due to him would be handed over according to agreement.

“I did not mean what I said to be taken seriously,” said the financial agent.

“But I did,” replied the captain.  “And take notice that if you wriggle again I will make short work of this business.”

The balance of freight was handed over without further demur, and the craft taken in tow as arranged.  It was urged that the heaviest laden of the three lighters should tow astern of the others.  The engines were set easy ahead.  The two scorpions were asked to get into their boat quickly.  They wished the captain good luck, and gave him instructions to steer over to the African side of the gut, as the current was easier there.  He was warned in true Levantine eloquence, and with an accent and tone that indicated anxiety for the success of the project, to look sharply after the “wolves” when they got off Tarifa, for this is the narrowest part of the entrance to the Mediterranean.  It was clear that this traffic welcomed no publicity.

The C——­ was soon plunging into a strong westerly swell, though there was as yet but little wind.  They had got Tarifa abeam, when the look-out man reported a small vessel three points on the starboard bow.  In a few more minutes the “wolves” announced themselves by a few small shot rattled against the smoke stack.  Orders were given to the second officer to go aft with a hatchet, and when the signal was given he had to snap the tow-rope of the last felucca.  All hands were ordered to lie low—­i.e., lie under shelter of the bulwarks.  The captain and chief officer took shelter on the port side of the charthouse.  The vessel’s course was altered, but being so far over on the African coast there was not much room to play on.  The firing was still directed at the funnel, though at times it was erratic.  One of the seamen shouted, “I’m hit!” In an instant the captain blew his whistle, and the tow-line of No. 3 craft was cut.  The steamer’s speed increased, though it did not much matter so far as getting out of the fire zone was concerned, as the Spanish Costaguardia’s attention became fixed on the abandoned craft.

“My God!” soliloquized the chief mate, “the Rock-scorpions are right.  They have pounced upon the derelict like wolves.  I almost wish I was there to see the effect when they realize they have been fooled, and they find that that craft is loaded with stones.  It was just done in the nick of time; they might have compelled us to heave to.”