When the elevation party reached the tug there was still some time before the firing was due to begin and they spent it with the lieutenant in command—whom Ordith knew as Toby—sitting in deck-chairs and smoking cigarettes. The sun had broken through a stormy sky, so that there was golden lace on the rim of each dark hollow in the sea, and the rigging was fringed with glistening drops that, as the vessel rolled, fell in showers on to the deck.
Presently the “Preparative” was hoisted by the flagship.
“Time to begin,” said Ordith, and stretched himself. “Everything ready, Lynwood—paper, pencil, stop-watch? We’d better be moving aft.”
“There’s plenty of time,” said Toby, “time to finish your cigarettes.”
Ordith drew slowly at his, and watched the smoke swept aft on the wind. Like a cat he lay contented in the sun.
“I’m not keen on you fellows sitting aft of those steadying lines,” Toby said. “If one of them parts, the wire will move like—like the blade of a guillotine.”
“I confess the position is not one I should have chosen,” Ordith answered. “But where else can we work the Rake? I don’t want my valuable head removed.”
“I think it might be possible—God! there goes the tow!”
Toby sprang up as a tremor passed through the tug. No sound had been audible. John, who had caught a glimpse of Toby’s suddenly white face, moved to follow him. Cunwell, too, was on his feet.