"All right," he assented; "I'll see to that. You may as well turn in again."
"I've had enough sleep to last me for a time," replied Jack. "I'll keep watch with you. Here, put this on, or you'll get soaked to the skin," he added, producing an oilskin from one of the lockers, and proceeding to don a second one himself.
"What's that?" asked Gerald, after a prolonged interval, as a dull, pulsating sound, quite unlike the noise of a steamer's engines, was borne faintly to their ears.
"Hanged if I know! Here, old chap, get a sweep out, and keep way on her. I'll sound the fog-bell."
Tregarthen did as he was asked, for the yacht was now practically becalmed, while Stockton made a vigorous onslaught upon the improvised fog-bell with his mallet.
Nearer and nearer came the mysterious vibrating sound; then, with appalling suddenness, a shrill, long-drawn blast from a siren sounded as if from overhead.
"By Jove! We'll be run down!" exclaimed Jack, calmly, though he fully realised the danger.
The next instant a hoarse voice shouted: "Ahoy there! Starboard your helm!"
Instinctively Jack thrust the tiller hard over; the yacht, responding slowly to the helm, commenced to describe a wide curve; but in less than ten seconds from the time of the hail a ponderous monster of grey-coloured steel loomed out of the fog, its upper portion lost to view in the mist.
Crash!