They sang, and the song rang out with all the fire that’s in it—the fire that makes it immortal. They had just begun the third verse,
“Who dreads to the dust returning?
Who shrinks from the sable shore?”
when a sharp call through the voice-tube from the bridge broke in:
“Radio room reports a high-pitched spark on five hundred metres.”
Almost before the others had taken it in, Evans shot out of the door, saying, “The hunt’s on.”
Running aft along the matted deck, he climbed the ladder leading to the radio-compass shack, and, silently opening the door, seated himself beside the operator on watch who was listening intently as he rotated the coil back and forth, his eyes glued on the dial. Evans slipped the spare head-phones over his ears and plugged them into a socket which enabled him to listen in with the operator. Not a sound could he hear. After listening a moment, he said, “D’you get a bearing?”
“Very rough,” answered the operator. “He only sent for about three seconds after they opened the main antenna. I reported it, though.”
“What was it?”
“Fifteen degrees,” answered the man.