“Know her! I should say I did. Wasn’t I sweet on her once. Why! You old hypocrite, you know her yourself. By Jove! I’m remembering! You were the hardest hit of all the fellows—”
But Topham shook his head. “No! that’s over long ago,” he answered, soberly. “She turned me down very hard, and I—well, I’ve gotten over it. This isn’t a question of romance, you know. It’s serious—more serious than I can tell you.”
The torpedo boat heeled far over; then rolled back again. Quentin rose. “We’ve reached the capes, evidently,” he remarked. “I’ll go to the deck and take charge.” He glanced at the chart. “East-southeast a little east!” he repeated. “Make yourself comfortable, old man. I’ll notify you if anything turns up, or if the wireless man catches anything.”
But Topham shook his head. “No! I’ll come on deck, too,” he said.
Steadily the Watson thrashed eastward into the deepening night, not rising on the waves but cutting through them and getting the full benefit of their differential lift. Steadily, too, the wireless operator sent his call across the waters.
It was two hours before he got an answer. Then, as ordered, he sent word to Topham, and the latter hurried to his side.
“I’ve got the Southern Cross,” he announced.
“Good! Tell him who we are. Have him notify the captain that I wish to come aboard him, and ask for his position and course and speed.”
The operator’s fingers played over the key—the ridiculously exaggerated key of the wireless. Soon he stopped and noted the reply upon a blank sheet of paper.
Topham called a messenger and sent the note to Quentin, asking him to lay his course accordingly. Then he turned back to the wireless operator.