Ten minutes later this came in by way of the “Grigsby’s” aerials:
“S. O. S.! Taking to our boats on starboard side. Enemy on our port! S. O. S. ‘Griswold’.”
“And we are still fifteen miles away!” moaned Dave.
His face was calm, but ghastly white. His lips were tightly closed over firmly set jaws. “Fifteen miles away!”
“The turbines are doing every ounce of work that is in them,” said Lieutenant Fernald, in a low voice.
“I know it,” Dave answered dully, staring ahead into the night. “And Dalzell will be even longer than we in reaching the ‘Griswold’.”
“If you could tell the captain of the ‘Griswold’ how long it will take you to reach him, he might know better what to do—how to hold out more successfully,” suggested Fernald.
“And, if the German knows the code we are using he would know how long he could continue his wicked work and still have chance to get away,” Darrin replied. “I must not send him that information. Fernald, I have some hope that I may be able to find that German pirate still on the surface. If I do—”
Darrin did not finish, but on his face there was an expression that was both prayer and threat.
The watch officer counted the miles as they were reeled off and told Dave, from time to time, how many miles yet remained to be covered.