"Let's get out of this, sir," whispered the engineer-lieutenant. "Thought it would take a lot to capsize me, but, by Jove----!"
He backed abruptly, followed by the lieutenant-commander. Stirling, deep in his task, had not noticed their presence.
A barefooted signalman, his blackened face and scorched and torn singlet bearing testimony to his part in the "scrap", pattered along the shell-pitted deck, and, saluting, tendered a signal-pad to his commanding officer.
Crosthwaite took the paper and read the message scrawled thereon in violet pencil.
"H'm!" he muttered. "S'pose they want us out of it."
It was an order to the effect that the Calder was to steam to a certain rendezvous, fall in with one of the parent ships, transfer wounded, and await further orders. There seemed very little possibility of the destroyer participating in the night attack upon the German fleet--an operation in which the swiftly-moving British vessels might achieve greater results, even if they failed to surpass the glory they had already acquired by their wild, tempestuous dash in broad daylight.
"Almost wish I'd let the damaged wireless go for a bit," mused Crosthwaite as he made his way to the badly-shattered bridge.
[CHAPTER IX--The "Warrior's" Gallant Stand]
"What do you think we are up against?" asked Sefton, taking advantage of a lull in the firing to put the question to his companion in the fire-control station.
"Something big," replied the other, wiping a thin layer of coal dust and particles of burnt cordite from the lenses of his binoculars. "With this rotten mist hanging around, one has to be jolly careful not to pitch a salvo into one of our own craft. Wish to goodness I'd remembered to bring my camera along. By Jove! Wouldn't the old Defence make a fine picture when she opened fire?"