We presently fired again, this time cutting the royal stunsail sheet and setting the sail violently flapping, with the result that it had to be taken in before the sheet could be spliced.  But we were not to be allowed to have matters all our own way very much longer, for while we were reloading the long gun a jet of flame, followed by a puff of white smoke, like a little wad of white cotton wool, suddenly leaped from the brigantine's stern port, and a 9-pound shot came whistling overhead, neatly bringing down our fore topgallant-mast, with all attached, on its way.  We were now in a very pretty pickle, forward, for it was our wings that were clipped, much more effectually than we had clipped those of the chase; and now, too, the commodore came romping up to us, hand over hand.  We were, however, not yet beaten, by a long way, and while a good strong gang was at once sent aloft to clear away the wreck, we on deck kept up a brisk and persistent fire upon the chase with our long gun. But whether it was that Thompson's hand had lost its cunning, or that the flapping and banging of the wreckage overhead disconcerted him and spoiled his aim, certain it is that we made no more hits just then.