“And it’s quite time you and I beat it for our battle stations. Everything is being made ready for attack. If we’re late, it won’t look so good.”
Osceola stopped and stared at Bill. “Don’t tell me that you, a midshipman of the United States Navy, are going to help these bum pirates fight one of your own battleships!”
Bill looked at him and laughed. “Some patriotic little flagwaver, aren’t you,” he jeered. “No, Herr Junior Lieutenant, I do not intend to shoot at the Plymouth or the Reading, or whatever’s the name of that cruiser. Have you never played hare and hounds, Big Chief? Well, this time, you and I and everybody on board are hares. Those two 117-mm. guns forward, and the two on the poop are all right for scaring passenger liners and bringing unarmed merchant-men to haul down their colors. But they haven’t the caliber or the range of three-quarters of the guns aboard that cruiser. This is going to be a race—not a battle! Beat it!”
Chapter XV
THE CHASE
By the time Bill reached his station on the poop, the quiet routine aboard the liner had given way to activity. The Amtonia was awake to the heat and fever of desperate life.
Lieutenant Schneider, who was in command of the gun, seized Bill’s arm. “Bolton!” he cried, “look there—she’s changed her course! She’s going to head us off!”
Shading his eyes with his hand, Bill strained them toward the northern horizon. The great molten surface of the sun was already half obliterated by the spreading bank of fog that turned the sea to dull amethyst.
“I doubt it,” he replied. “If that fog keeps increasing, the visibility will soon be too poor for the cruiser to get our range.”
“There is Commander Geibel on the bridge. The ship is in good hands—that is a blessing!” Lieutenant Schneider’s tone betrayed his excitement.
“We’re sheering off to starboard—” said Bill. “That’s good news. It’s going to be a close thing, just the same.”