Instead of the usual answer there was a short pause and another voice spoke boisterously through the trumpet:
"Is that you, Vincent? Don't you know the Superb when you see her?"
"Not in the dark, Keats. How are you? I am in a hurry to speak the Admiral."
"The fleet is lying by," came the voice now with painstaking distinctness across the murmurs, whispers and splashes of the black lane of water dividing the two ships. "The Admiral bears S.S.E. If you stretch on till daylight as you are, you will fetch him on the other tack in time for breakfast on board the Victory. Is anything up?"
At every slight roll the sails of the Amelia, becalmed by the bulk of the seventy-four, flapped gently against the masts.
"Not much," hailed Captain Vincent. "I made a prize."
"Have you been in action?" came the swift inquiry.
"No, no. Piece of luck."
"Where's your prize?" roared the speaking trumpet with interest.
"In my desk," roared Captain Vincent in reply. . . . "Enemy dispatches. . . . I say, Keats, fill on your ship. Fill on her, I say, or you will be falling on board of me." He stamped his foot impatiently. "Clap some hands at once on the tow-line and run that tartane close under our stern," he called to the officer of the watch, "or else the old Superb will walk over her without ever knowing anything about it."