"Set course 188 degrees. Keep lookout for inbound transports to be convoyed. Ten ships."
Again the destroyer swung into line. It was almost seven o'clock—after dark—when the lookout aboard the Plymouth reported:
"Smoke ahead!"
Instantly all was activity aboard the destroyers. Directly, through his glass, Jack sighted nine rusty, English tramp steamers, of perhaps eight thousand tons, and a big liner auxiliary flying the Royal Navy ensign.
Under the protection of the destroyers, the ships made for an English port. The night passed quietly. With the coming of morning, the flotilla was divided. The Plymouth stood by to protect the big liner, while the other three destroyers and the tramp steamers moved away toward the east.
"This destroyer game is no better than driving a taxi," Frank protested to Jack on the bridge that afternoon. You never see anything. I'd like to get ashore for a change. I've steamed sixty thousand miles since last May and what have I seen? Three ports, besides six days' leave in London."
"You had plenty of time ashore before that," replied Jack.
"Maybe I did. But I'd like to have some more. Besides, this isn't very exciting business."
Night fell again, and still nothing had happened to break the quiet monotony of the trip. Lights of trawlers flashed up ahead. Interest on the bridge picked up.
"Object off the port bow," called the lookout.