I
"IT'S no use, Harry. We're losing on every tack."
"Yes, I know. We've drifted quite fifty yards from that buoy. Shake her up while I let go for'ard. We'll bring up here for the night and carry on up to Flapperham with to-morrow's flood tide."
Harry Armitage, owner and skipper of the little 3-ton cutter Spray, made his way for'ard. The head sails were quickly lowered, with a rush and a rattle the chain cable flew through the fairlead, and with her mainsail flapping in the keen breeze, the Spray brought up head to wind and tide.
"Now then, bear a hand with the mainsail, Jack; the sooner we get this business over the better, for we're in for a dirty night." Jack Standish, who filled every capacity on board the Spray that the skipper didn't, joined his companion and began to cast off the throat-halliards.
"Aren't we too close to the powder-ship?" he asked, indicating a hulk that loomed up darkly against the evening sky—a sky full of angry tints from deep indigo to pale yellow.
"Too close? We're more than the prescribed 200 yards off. If you're afraid she'll blow up, we may just as well be here as any other part of the harbour, for I believe she has over a thousand tons of cordite on board."
"I don't mind if you don't, only——"
"Only what?"