“Ay, ay, sir.”
The Captain went to the tube. “Slacken speed, Mr Dixon, and be very careful with your fires. Starboard your helm; bring her round.”
The Swift went round with a steady swing, bringing the enemy’s light on her port bows, instead of over her starboard stern rails.
The men lingered awhile to see the manoeuvre finished, and then went below, satisfied there was to be a fight.
“Keep her on that course now,” said the Captain to the steersman.
“Mr Webster,” he continued, as that officer stepped briskly up and took a glance round, “see that everything is in readiness, and that the men take their positions without a word. Within an hour the fight will begin.”
“Begin, sir? You’ve been at it this past three hours, and I’ve been in and out of my bunk a dozen—times, while the men are all on the quiver.”
“We haven’t come to knocks yet. I’ll present my card in the morning with a fifty-pound rat-tat.”
Webster laughed gaily as he set about his duties, and presently the men gathered silently to their posts, some of them every now and again stealing to the sides to make out the whereabouts of the enemy and the meaning of the manoeuvre, which puzzled them, as one might gather from their whispered arguments.
The Swift doubled back towards the eastern horizon, where the darkness was quickly melting into the grey of dawn, and a deep silence rested on the ship, and over the shining heave of waters. Slowly the enemy’s light was overhauled, then sank astern, but the Swift kept on its way until a tint of pink appeared in the sky and the stars suddenly paled.