At the foot of the light-house lay a small, white cutter with its brass appointments glittering in the sunlight. Her crew, consisting of three men, had crept into the little cabin, while the black stoker was resting on a bench near the boiler.
"Ho, Dodge!" shouted Spencer, "get up steam. We're going over to the transport-ships in ten minutes."
The firemen threw several shovels of coal into the furnace, whereupon a cloud of smoke poured out of the funnel straight up along the light-house. Lieutenant Wood telephoned over to Corpus Christi that the transports with the troops on board had been sighted and that they would probably arrive in the roads in about two hours.
"We're going over to one of the transport-ships meanwhile," he added, "and will await the arrival of the squadron out there."
While Lieutenant Spencer was climbing down the narrow staircase, Lieutenant Wood once more examined the horizon and suddenly started. The thunder of a shot boomed across the water. Boom—came the sound of another one!
The lieutenant clapped his marine-glasses to his eyes. Yes, there were two Dreadnoughts out there, evidently saluting. But why at such a distance?
"Gibson," he called down the staircase.
"Come on, Ben!" came the impatient answer from below.
"I can't, I wish you'd come up again for a minute, I'm sure something's wrong!"
The gun-shots were booming loudly across the water as Lieutenant Spencer reached the gallery, covered with perspiration.