“No. 1—Gloucester City, 7,500 tons, Latitude 50 degrees 55 minutes North, Longitude 9 degrees 14 minutes West, 60 fathoms, torpedoed 20th September, 1918,” he read out. “Get the chart, Lyngstrand, and let us prick down its exact position.”
His fair-haired junior obediently spread out a chart of the exit to the English Channel upon the table.
“20th of September!” he said, reflectively. “That’s curious, Jensen! Exactly a year ago to-day!”
“Coincidences must happen sometimes,” replied Jensen with the superior indifference of three or four years’ seniority. “I see nothing remarkable in it.”
“It just struck me,” said Lyngstrand, apologetically. “No—I suppose there’s nothing remarkable in it—it might just as well have been any other day.”
Jensen threw a cursory glance at the chart.
“You’ve brought the wrong one,” he said, snappily. “This doesn’t go far enough north. Look in the drawer there—there must be another one.”
“It is up in the wheelhouse, I think, Jensen,” demurred the young man, mildly.
“Yes—I know—but old Horst is certain to have a duplicate. Look in the drawer and see!” replied Jensen, with an impatience invited by the docility of his junior.
Lyngstrand obeyed, rummaging among a number of charts in the drawer of the locker under Captain Horst’s bunk.