"That's the right spirit," said Skelt encouragingly. "This skipper may be a holy terror, but he can't murder us all if we stick together. Just show him that you don't mean to put your necks in the hangman's rope for his sake, and he'll soon calm down, I'll swear. I know them bucko skippers: all froth and fury so long as they think you're afraid of 'em; but once they see you don't care a Dago's damn for all their bullying, they become as meek as lambs. Oh, I know 'em! Sailed with one——"
The ex-boatswain's reminiscence was cut short by the sound of a whistle on deck. Next moment the foc'sle door was flung open and the second-mate put his head in.
"To your stations, every man!" he shouted. "Uncover the guns and stand by for orders!"
There was a rush from the foc'sle, and the first man to take his station and start peeling the tarpaulins off the machine-gun, was the fiery and defiant Jasper Skelt.
CHAPTER VIII
THE PRIZE
A slight haze hung over the water, so that sea and sky were merged in a film of brooding grey. Through this, looking strangely flimsy and unreal by reason of the mist, could be seen a large cargo-steamer of about five thousand tons. She was steaming in the opposite direction to the Hawk at something like ten knots, and from her triatic stay fluttered a hoist of signal-flags indicating the question: "What ship are you?"
"What shall I answer, sir?" inquired Mr. Dykes of Calamity.
"'British steamer Hawk. Singapore for London.'"