Everybody rushed to see; and made but little of the smudge of smoke, far on the horizon. They came back to watch the enemy. Only the Fields had not moved; Tommy was asleep, his face against his father’s.
On the German ship things were stirring. They could see hasty movements of men. Smoke began to pour from her funnels.
“They’re coming, I expect,” Jim said. He tightened his grip on Norah’s arm.
Mr. Dixon left the bridge, and came hurriedly aft. The passengers flocked round him.
“There’s a ship in sight,” he said, “and we think she’s a British cruiser. The enemy evidently think it, and they’re getting up steam.”
“Not going to stop?” a girl cried wildly.
“It doesn’t seem like it.” He hesitated. “We trust you to show no panic. It is quite possible that they may try to sink us without taking off the passengers—will you all get to your boat-stations quickly and put on the life-belts the stewards will serve out?”
There were white faces, but no panic. Men and women trooped to their stations, the former stooping to pick up children, and taking babies from their mother’s arms—arms that took them back hungrily as soon as the life-belts were adjusted. The boats were swung outward from the davits, their crews in their places; and for a few minutes a very agony of suspense held the ship silent. Every eye was glued to the German ship. People held their breath, watching the guns—each moment expecting a flash and an explosion.
A line of flags fluttered into place on the enemy’s rigging, and simultaneously the passengers glanced up at the bridge of the Perseus, where alone the message could be understood. They saw Captain Garth put his glasses down hurriedly and grip Mr. Dixon’s hand. Then he caught up a megaphone and turned to them, speaking through it.
“The enemy is leaving us,” came the shout. “They signal, ‘We will not destroy your ship on account of the women and children on board. You are dismissed. Good-bye.’ ”