The “Grigsby” came rushing, roaring in, and then, slowing down, went close to the foremost of the boats from the sinking liner.
From the submarine a shell arched and struck in that boat, tearing out the bottom and throwing the occupants into the sea.
“Searchlight!” commanded Darrin.
Hardly a second did the light waver in the sky, then settled down across the submarine, making a fair mark of her.
A double bark leaped out from the forward guns. Never had pieces been better served, for one shell tore a big, jagged hole in the starboard hull of the enemy, the bottom of the rent being barely six inches from the water. The second shell went in just below the water-line, throwing up a geyser-like jet of water.
“A just fate, but a pity it could not have been made ten times more severe,” muttered Dave, as, through the glass, he saw the submersible careen under the impact, with a swift listing to starboard.
There was no use bothering further about the fate of the enemy. That was already settled. There were travelers, many of them Americans, to be saved as far as saving could be done.
As though to keep the submersible mocking company, the “Griswold” gave a final lurch, then settled quietly under the waves despite the immensity of her hull.
“Put around to port—back!” shouted Darrin, his voice now cool and steady as the realization of his rescue duties came to him. “Slow,” he added, warningly. “We must be careful not to upset those boats with our wash.”
After making the turn, Darrin ordered the speed reduced still more, as he saw human figures ahead on the dark waves—some swimming, others floating in death.