“The ‘Cumberland’ is still afloat and not hit, thank Heaven!” Darrin uttered fervently.
Only the troopship’s quick turn to starboard had saved her. The torpedo had sped past by less than five feet from her rudder.
Another turn, and Dave came up with the scene of the explosion. Oh, cheerful sight! The water was mottled with great patches of oil. More cheering still, sundered bits of wooden fittings from a submarine floated on the water. Two dead bodies also drifted on the swells; the remaining Huns on the shattered craft must have gone down with the sea pest.
“Not bad work, Mr. Curtin,” Dave remarked, calmly, as the destroyer once more moved into her place in the escort line.
“May we have as good luck every time,” came the fervent response of the watch officer.
Word of the bomb hit had been signalled along the line. It was hard indeed that the soldiers were not allowed to cheer!
But had the morning’s work really begun?
[CHAPTER IX—WHEN THE ENEMY SCORED]
The sun had risen through a haze, which is in favor of a fleet on the defensive, as there is not so much glare from the water to confuse the vision of lookouts.
However, there was no attack in the next hour. The fleet continued on its way only as swiftly as the slowest transport could move, for it is an axiom at sea that the speed of a fleet is the speed of its slowest ship.