On the bridge were screened lights—one over the bridge compass, that the quartermaster might see to keep the ship on her course; another light placed under the hood that protected the chart table.
No other light appeared, and no light whatever could have been made out on the destroyer by any one from a near-by craft.
The minutes ticked slowly by—eternities they were to Dave Darrin.
Nearer and nearer, every minute, yet was there hope of arriving in time?
“By—by Jove!” cried Fernald, at last, under his breath.
“I see it,” Dave replied quietly. “And there is another—flashes from the German craft’s deck guns. We see them on account of the elevation of the guns, though we do not yet see the German hull through the glass.”
“I can make out the ‘Griswold’,” Fernald exclaimed. “Over there! See her, yonder? She is low in the water.”
“Yes; she must soon sink, or I am a poor guesser,” Dave rejoined. “Look, Fernald! Isn’t the liner lowering her port boats now?”
“Yes, sir, and shoving rafts over, too.”
“The rafts? Ah, yes! Near the finish now, and the ‘Griswold’s’ skipper has given up hope of our help. Putting the rafts overboard is always the first step in a wreck.”