He turned to obey with a frown of protest, when, seemingly not a yard off, there flamed the lights of a ship’s cabin.
“Where are you coming to, you lubber?” shouted out a voice furiously.
There was a jar, an ugly tearing noise, and Frank and the young lady were thrown at each other.
“I beg your pardon, really,” said Frank, as he loosened his hold of her waist; “but I could not help myself.”
She stood back with a gasp. “Did you see that? Has she sunk?”
The reply came from the angry officer of the other vessel in a torrent of language reassuring as to her safety, but venomously strong.
The lights of another ship flashed by; then the steamer darted into the narrow fairway between a fleet of vessels, big and little, the waves washing against them, and bringing up an angry swarm of men, whose shouts could be heard in a confused babble in the rear.
“What ship’s that?” hailed a man in powerful tones.
There was no answer, and Frank felt a hand on his arm.
“We are the Customs—where are your lights?” followed in a faint hail astern.