It is Christmas day. Out of the furious southwest blows a storm. The English ships, guarding the mouth of the Helder, are driven from their stations, and carried far out to sea. Tired of the Texel, with its French and English and Dutch, Commodore Paul Jones, taking advantage of the English scudding seaward before the gale, runs out with the Alliance, and lays her nose for the English coast, in the very face of the weather.

Being Christmas day, when Commodore Paul Jones puts the Dutch coast astern, there is plum duff and double grog aboard the Alliance. These, and the blue water beneath their fore-foot, mightily cheer the hearts of the crew. The exuberance takes shape in a way grateful to the soul of Commodore Paul Jones. A missive, borne by the tarry hand of Boatswain Jack Robinson, finds him during the larboard watch. As Boatswain Robinson rolls aft, the whole crew follow him, a respectable distance in the rear.

“It’s a deppytation,” explains Boatswain Robinson, pulling his forelock—“a deppytation of the entire ship’s company down to cooks an’ cabin-boys, an’ be dammed to ‘em! They sets forth their views in a round robin, which I hereby tenders.”

Boatswain Robinson holds out a square of dingy bown paper. It is signed by every member of the crew, beginning with the redoubtable Robinson. Commodore Paul Jones reads the round robin, which is written in black sprawling characters, while Lieutenant Dale who comes up holds a ship’s lantern. Thus runs the document, the compilation whereof has exhausted the forecastle.

“We respectfully request you, sir, to lay us alongside any single-decked English ship to be found in these seas, or any double-decked ship under a fifty.”

“My lads,” says Commodore Paul Jones, when he finished reading the round robin, “this is what I like. Our ship is a thirty-six, our biggest gun a twelve-pounder. You say ‘lay her alongside a fifty gun ship, with her lower tier of eighteen-pounders. I promise that I’ll do my best. I’ll cruise between St. George’s Channel and the Bay of Biscay two full weeks, looking for what you ask. Still, I must tell you that, while I’ve plenty of hope, I’ve little expectation. This is winter weather, lads, and the chances of our finding a fight are slim. If we find one, however, I shall, by way of compliment, take you over the Englishman’s hammock nettings myself; for I hold you, man and boy, to be a............