"And the Argyll is equal to it, captain. All I fear is torpedoes. Of course our ends and superstructure will catch it, and I suppose we'll lose men—all the quick-fire men, perhaps."
"Those in the tops surely," said the captain. "Dalrymple, what do you think? I don't feel right about Finnegan. He belongs in the turret, and I've sentenced him. Have I the right? I've half a mind to call him down." He pushed a button marked "Forward turret," and listened at a telephone.
"Mr. Clarkson!" he called. "I've put your man Finnegan in the upper top; but he seems all right now. Can you use him?"
The answer came:
"No, sir; I've filled his place."
"Die, then. On my soul be it, Finnegan, poor devil," muttered the captain, gloomily.
His foot struck the bottle under the binnacle, and, on an impulse due to his mood, he picked it up and uncorked it. Mr. Dalrymple observed the action and stepped toward him.
"Captain, pardon me," he said, "if I protest unofficially. We are going into action—not to dinner."
The captain's eyes opened wide and shone brighter, while his lip curled. He extended the bottle to the lieutenant.
"The apologies are mine, Mr. Dalrymple," he said. "I forgot your presence. Take a drink."