"That will give the show away," the Quartermaster muttered sadly.
"I'm afraid it will," Mr. Meredith answered, desperately anxious.
That fire burnt all night, but in the morning the Turks never showed the least sign of activity beyond the usual normal sniping and shelling.
Saturday dawned absolutely calm—a few flaky, almost stationary clouds showed against the blue sky.
"Can it hold until Monday morning?"—that was what everyone thought and hoped and prayed.
Again the ten midshipmen "fell in" outside the little wooden hut—this time all in their proper blue uniform—and received their orders in writing, each order beginning with the well-known formula: "Being in all respects ready for sea, you will proceed forthwith..." Then followed long detailed orders for every eventuality.
Drawing two days' provisions for his own crew and the twenty-four men in his four pulling-boats occupied the rest of the Orphan's morning.
At half-past four he shoved off from the Achates—the Hun, looking wistfully after him, waved "good luck"—and he towed his four boats to the trawler told off to tow him to Suvla. Bubbles, coming along with his boats, made fast to another. Before dusk all the trawlers left Kephalo, each with its picket-boat and string of pulling-boats behind it; four headed for Suvla, and the other six towards Anzac.
The sea was calm, and the sky gave not the slightest indication of any change in the weather, so that the Orphan and his coxswain—a wiry, active petty officer named Marchant, belonging to the Swiftsure—were in the highest spirits.
"If it only keeps like this, sir!" the coxswain kept on saying.