"The navigator, Lieutenant Higgins, reports that several ships have been sighted to starboard three miles ahead. Lieutenant Higgins thinks...."
"Lieutenant Higgins thinks, of course, that it is Admiral Crane's yellow fleet," snarled Farlow.
"Yes, sir," answered the orderly, "the yellow fleet," and stared in astonishment at the commander of the Connecticut, who, followed by Admiral Perry, rushed up the stairs.
"Oh, my oilskins!..." With this exclamation the commander reached the top of the staircase leading to the bridge deck, where a violent rush of greenish-gray water from a particularly enormous wave drenched him from head to foot.
"Now, then, Mr. Higgins," he called, wiping the water from his eyes and mustache, "where is the yellow fleet?"
The navigator was staring out to sea through his glass trying to penetrate the thick veil of rain. The storm howled and showers of foam burst over the decks of the Connecticut, the water washing over everything with a dull roar.
Captain Farlow had no need to inquire further. That was Admiral Crane and his yellow fleet sure enough!
The silhouettes of six large battleships looking like phantom-ships rising from the depths of the boiling ocean could be plainly seen through the rain and waves about six thousand yards to starboard of the Connecticut.
"Clear ships for action!" commanded the captain. The navigator and another lieutenant hurried to the telephones and transmitted the order. The flag lieutenant of the squadron rushed to the telephone leading to the wireless room, and ordered a message forwarded to all of the ships of the squadron to proceed at full speed. For safety's sake the order was repeated by means of flag signals.
While from the bridge the officers were watching the gray phantoms of the strange armored fleet, it continued calmly on its course. The leading ship threw up great masses of foam like huge exploding fountains, which covered the bow with showers of gray water.