By half-past twelve they were clear of the harbour. In a couple of hours they expected to pick up the destroyer Kennet. By twenty past three there ought to be enough light to see a mile and a half ahead, and by that time they hoped to be close in to the mouth of the creek. By half-past four the job might be over—should be finished—and they ought to be on the way home, with the Turkish patrol-boat in tow.
"My jumping Orphan! It's a grand show, isn't it?" said the Sub, swallowing some of the cocoa. "Nothing like ship's cocoa to stand by one's stomach."
The Orphan, awed by the solemnity of the night and the blackness and emptiness of everything, and too excited to talk, gripped the steering-wheel and peered into the compass-box.
A little before half-past two the black outline of a destroyer loomed up. The signalman in the picket-boat, Bostock—a thick-set, criminal-looking man whom the Sub had chosen—flashed across with a shaded lamp. The Kennet flashed back, stopped, and took both boats in tow, then very slowly steamed ahead. By a quarter-past three the coast-line became faintly visible, with a break in it—the creek of Ajano. The destroyer stopped, the towing hawser was cast off, and then the Orphan knew that their time had come. How his heart beat!
"Shove along in!" called the Captain of the Kennet, coming aft. "I'll keep an eye on you. Get back as soon as you can. Good luck to you!"
The Orphan had a glimpse of Mr. M'Andrew fumbling with his watch-chain, and of the Greeks springing about and fingering their rifles as though they wanted to let them off then and there; and then the destroyer was left behind, and he was steering for the mouth of the little creek, with the picket-boat throbbing and panting under him.
"You've got your revolver? Yes, that's right. For goodness' sake don't fire it unless you are obliged," the Sub said in a low voice.
Jarvis had already buckled on his cutlass. He, too, had a revolver. The Bandit and the Hired Assassin crept out of the forepeak and lay down on each side of the maxim—they looked very keen on their job. Plunky Bill went for'ard to the maxim, opened a belt-box, and slipped the end of the belt through the breech. The other "hands", including Bostock the signalman and the three extra men—great horny chaps—stirred themselves, and buckled their cutlass-belts round them—they would probably find these more useful than rifles, though rifles also lay handy.
"I'd better have one of these cutlasses," the Sub said. "Got a spare one down there?"
They passed up one and its belt, and he fastened it round him, drawing the cutlass half out of the scabbard to make certain that it would not stick. "Clumsy things," he said, "but mighty good in a scrap; can knock a chap's teeth down his throat with the hilt—fine."