Her antagonist's reply was not long delayed. With a lurid red flash that completely eclipsed the wan moonlight, her after quick-firer let rip. A shrill whine as the projectile passed overhead caused every man on the M.L.'s deck to duck his head.
"If she can't do better than that it's time she packed up!" shouted Wakefield. "Keep it up, men! Let her have it properly in the neck!"
A provoking wreath of vapour drifting down hid the misty outlines of her opponent from the M.L.'s crew. Only the constant flashes of the former's guns gave the six-pounder's gun-layer an inkling of her direction. Whether five hundred or a thousand yards separated the combatants remained a matter for speculation, and whether the foe was "legging it" or closing upon Wakefield's command was equally a speculative proposition.
"That's a near one," thought Meredith, as a shell literally scraped the searchlight mounted on the roof of the wheel-house.
Hitherto the opposing craft had been firing with too much elevation. Apparently realising her mistake, her gunner was lowering the sights.
Kenneth's thought was also shared by his skipper. Wakefield decided first to increase the distance in order to baffle the enemy gun-layers, and then make a dash for his opponent and thus bring the depth-charges into action.
Grasping the telegraph levers, he intended to signal full ahead on the starboard and full astern on the port engine in order to spin the M.L. on her heel in the shortest possible time. But at the critical moment the mechanism failed badly: both levers became interlocked.
Savagely Wakefield wrenched at the refractory indicator. Manoeuvring under engines alone was out of the question. The use of the helm was the sole solution of the difficulty.
"Cease fire!" shouted the skipper, judging that the absence of flashes from the puny six-pounder would mystify the hostile craft, and give the M.L. a better chance to close and use her depth-charges. "Stand by aft, Meredith, and give an eye to things. If those fellows get jumpy and fool about with the firing key, we're in the soup."
Promptly the Sub obeyed, yet as he did so he almost involuntarily crouched under the lee side of the "tin" dinghy that was hanging inboard from the davits. Then he laughed at what he had done. The idea of imagining that the thin galvanised steel plates of the dinghy would stop a 4.7-inch shell struck him as the height of absurdity.