A very few moments' watching was enough to convince Ken that G2 was overhauling her prey hand over fist. Within less than a quarter of an hour a mile of the steamer's lead had gone. Another five minutes and the distance between the two was barely twelve hundred yards.
'Hallo, they're getting gay!' remarked the big bluejacket, as rifles began to spit and bullets to throw up little jets of spray around the rushing submarine.
Presently one clanged against the conning tower itself. Commander Strang gave an order, and a little row of bunting ran up on the tiny mast of the submarine.
'"Heave to, or I'll sink you," that means,' observed Ken's friend.
The only response was a thicker hail of bullets. But the low deck of G2, flying onwards as she was at about twenty-two land miles an hour, made a poor target, and the Turks failed to do any damage beyond knocking a little paint off.
'Confound 'em!' growled Strang. 'They haven't got sense enough to come in out of the rain. Give 'em a shell, Watson.'
The long gray 12-pounder was ready. Her vicious-looking muzzle swung round. There was a ringing bang, and the shell, small but charged with deadly lyddite, spun away on its errand.
'A black-browed officer came to the rail.'
Ken, watching eagerly, saw a bright flash light the side of the steamer, close under her stern, and as a cloud of smoke floated up, the crash of the explosion came back to his ears.