"Port your wheel—hard over," yelled Jenkins, running forward. The destroyer swung to the southward, showing her stern to the battle-ship, and increasing her speed as the engine-room staff nursed the oil feed and the turbines. Black smoke—unconsumed carbon that even the blowers could not ignite—belched up from the four short funnels, and partly hid her from the battle-ship's view.
But, obscure though she was, she could not quite hide herself in her smoke nor could her speed carry her faster than the twelve-inch shells that now came plowing through the air. They fell close, to starboard and to port, and a few came perilously near to the stern; but none hit or exploded, and soon they were out of range and the firing ceased, the battle-ship heading to the west.
Jenkins came aft, and looked sternly at Denman, still smoking his cigar.
"Did you see that fellow before we did?" he asked.
"I did," answered Denman, returning his stare.
"Why didn't you sing out? If we're sunk, you drown, too, don't you?"
"You forget, Captain Jenkins, that I accepted my parole on condition that I should neither interfere with you nor assist you."
"But your life—don't you value that?"
"Not under some conditions. If I cannot emerge from this adventure with credit and honor intact, I prefer death. Do you understand?"
Jenkins' face worked visibly, as anger left it and wondering doubt appeared. Then his countenance cleared, and he smiled.