“Clear the gun for action,” shouted the Captain; and Webster, at the order, sprang over the bridge to the deck. Four men were at his side, the tarpaulin flew off, and the long black gun emerged.
Frank drew closer to the young lady. “Won’t you come below?” he said.
She did not hear, and he touched her with his hand.
She turned her eyes on him, magnificent and wild.
“Had you not better come below?”
She shook off his hand with an impatient gesture.
The long gun was already charged, and Webster stood by whistling, his hand ready to touch her off.
“Send the shot over that boat on the port side. Make it a close call, and she’ll shear off.”
Webster climbed up on the butt of his gun, took a long glance over the grey waters at the black funnel that alone showed, and without troubling himself about the reckonings for range finding, ventured an opinion:
“Is she a mile?”