"Nor-a-half-east it bears," continued the third officer. "I'm taking way off the ship now. Stand by to slip. Less noise there!" he added angrily, addressing his remarks to the now excited throng of passengers.
The alteration of speed had been enough to bring the whole of the saloon and second-class passengers on deck, and the startling information that there was a man overboard raised a storm of eager and for the most part purposeless questions.
The determined voice of one in authority quelled the babel. The third officer's anger was justifiable. It was impossible to issue orders clearly—orders on which success of the evolution depended—with scores of people talking excitedly.
A hush fell upon the throng of passengers. To many of them it was an entirely new experience being dragooned by a mere youngster in a brass-bound uniform, whose stinging commands were punctuated with the picturesque and forcible language of the sea.
The silence was broken by two more reports.
"Slip!" yelled the coxswain.
The patent falls were disengaged. The boat smacked the gently heaving swell with a noise like a pistol-shot.
"Give way! For all you're worth!"
The coxswain's exhortation was a mere figure of speech, for the rowers were straining every muscle and sinew as they urged the boat through the water. Her progress was marked by a double scintillation of phosphorescence as the blades dipped. A wake of blue-grey luminosity showed her course even after the boat itself was a mere blur in the starlit night.
Save for the groan of the rowlocks, the creaking of the stout ash oars and stretchers, the laboured breathing of the rowers, and the splash of water from the boat's sharp stem, hardly a sound broke the silence. The coxswain, holding the tiller with one hand, shaded his eyes with the other as he scanned the expanse of sea.