Being high in ballast she was rolling furiously. Cascades of water were pouring from her scuppers. Spray was flying in sheets over her bows and dashing against the wheel-house on the bridge, for owing to a sudden change of wind she was plugging almost dead into the teeth of the gale.
"It is impossible to communicate with her with this sea running," remarked Captain Whittinghame. "All we can do is to slow down and wait until the gale moderates."
As he spoke an oilskinned figure was observed to stagger out of the wheel-house and make his way to the starboard side of the bridge. Casting off the halliards leading to a block on a shroud between the two stumpy masts he hoisted a signal.
Owing to the direction of the wind it was for the time being impossible to read the flags, and it was not until the 'Meteor' forged ahead and was almost abeam of the tramp that Dacres could interpret the message.
"I—F—that's something to do with communicate," he announced. "Where's the code-book?"
"Here you are," replied Setchell rapidly turning over the pages.
"'I—F: I cannot stop to have any communication.' Like his impudence!"
"Or Durango's," added Whittinghame. "We cannot acknowledge, so we will mark time on the 'Quickstep.' How's the glass, Mr. Dacres?"
"Steady, sir, with a slight tendency to rise. This gale will soon blow itself out."
"Then the sooner the better," declared the Captain.