The Sultan's ships twitched and tugged at their anchors, which some of them even dragged.
On so fearful a night surely the Armada would dare to do nothing, could do nothing. Like the Spanish Armada of the brave days of old, Lamoo's midget fleet would be scattered or sunk.
The Breezy was making good way southward, when old Marconi began to speak.
Sometime after, little Sneyd ran into the ward-room with a bit of flimsy in his hand. The officers were discussing nips of sherry and bitters, or curaçoa and brandy, or anything good and handy, that would encourage the appetite. Very wrong this was indeed, but dinner would soon be laid, and there was a sad want of excitement among all hands, the depression that always follows a fight, whether victorious or the reverse.
"Honolulu!" cried Sneyd, "I'd give a day's pay to know who on earth does hold the ribbons in the British Navy."
"If you did," said Guilford quietly, "you would make things hum, wouldn't you, my dear little jumping Moses?"
"But look here. Here's a pretty go. Here is a blooming muddle! First, we were ordered to fly to the Cape, now we are called back, ordered back, kicked back, confound 'em, I say,
"Confound their politics,
Frustrate their Navy tricks."
"Hurrah! Hear, hear; but what is it all about?"
"They're going to board and burn Zanzibar, as far as I can see of it--a fleet from Lamoo is going to bring down the sleepy Sultan by the run."