Ralph Oddington and
Reginald Wotherspoon stood at the rail, trying with nerveless fingers
to roll cigarettes. Two of the girls were weeping in each other's
arms. The water bubbled under the turn of the yacht's counters. Two
of the sailors were discharging blank shells from the rifle astern in
hopes of calling attention to the plight of the craft. The deck was a
conglomerate, nervous confusion of smart yachting costumes, uniforms,
and greasy overalls.
Dan, noting the flutter, leaned back from the wheel.
"Don't get excited down there," he roared. "If the bulkhead holds,
we're all right. If it doesn't, there'll be plenty of time for all.
Do you understand? We can float for a week on the ocean the way it is
now."
"It won't hold long, Mr. Howland," he added to the man at his side,
"but it will hold until that steamship reaches us. She's seen us and
is coming like hell."
A few minutes later a joyous shout sounded from the men on the bridge,
a cry vibrant with electricity, which thrilled through the yacht and
finally trembled on all tongues. For the steamship had sized the
situation and was fairly leaping toward them. Great clouds of smoke
were belching from her funnel. They could see sparks mingling with the
thunderclouds of sepia, and the _Veiled Ladye_ hobbled woundily to meet
her.
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