The few hands took up the cheer, and the people on the deck above, relieved from some nameless fear at seeing the dark ship slipping away, responded with a feeble shout; the captain, from his lofty bridge, sending a call through his hollow hands: “What’s the meaning of this foolery?”
“Ask the guardship,” bellowed Captain Pardoe; “a little target practice. Good-bye.”
The little ship plunged into the welcome darkness, still maintaining her terrific speed, and the search-light could not reach her.
Then the lights were lit, the wounded man carried below, and an inspection made of the ship, when it was found that the iron bulwarks had been pierced a little forward of the wheel.
“Send the steersman forward!” shouted the Captain.
Frank was relieved, and walked to the bridge.
“What’s your name, my man?”
“Hume.”
“What—the passenger? I gave orders to have you locked in. Never mind that, sir; you did well, and I’m much obliged to you. You’re welcome to the run of the ship. That was a close shave, eh? If it hadn’t been for the mercy of that steamer we’d have been five fathoms under. You’d better turn in now.”
Frank lingered awhile to see whether the lady would appear, and then went down below, where he saw her leaning, as it were, for support against a saloon pillar, a handkerchief pressed to her forehead.