“She has edged away for us, sir.”
“Very well.—Mr Yerk, make the signal for the convoy to stand on.” Then to the boatswain—
“Mr Catwell, have the men gone to breakfast?”
“No, sir, but they are just going.”
“Then pipe belay with breakfast for a minute, will you? All hands make sail!”
“Crack on, Mr Yerk, and let us overhaul this small swaggerer.”
In a trice we had all sail set, and were staggering along on the larboard tack, close upon a wind. We hauled out from the merchant ships like smoke, and presently the schooner was seen from the deck.—“Go to breakfast now.” The crew disappeared, all to the officers, man at the helm, quartermaster at the conn, and signalman.
The first lieutenant had the book open on the drum of the capstan before him. “Make our number,” said the Captain. It was done. “What does she answer?”
The signalman answered from the fore-rigging, where he had perched himself with his glass—“She makes the signal to telegraph, sir—3, 9, 2, at the fore, sir”—and so on; which translated was simply this—“The Wave, with despatches from the admiral.”
“Oh, ho,” said Transom; “what is she sent for? Whenever the people have got their breakfast, tack, and stand towards her, Mr Yerk.”