He drew David into the chartroom.
When they emerged, a couple of minutes later, he was wearing the belt, and his countenance was pale. But the young man’s was ghastly.
Now there were blurs of smoke on the horizon. Captain Whinn indicated them, remarking:
“A little bit too late. Poor old Hesperus!”
The blurs had evidently been observed from the U-boat also, for a “Hurry up!” came in the form of a shell aimed just high enough to clear the deck.
Skipper and mate went down the ladder, and the boat was cast off. At a safe distance, the rowers, at a sign from the skipper, lay on their oars. Speedily the U-boat put her victim into a sinking condition. During the operation Whinn neither moved nor spoke; seemingly he did not hear the several remarks softly addressed to him by his nephew. His face was set; all the skin blemishes stood out against the tan of many years, upon which had come a grayish pallor; there was moisture on his brow.
Then through the slightly ruffled sea the U-boat, her gunners’ job over, moved toward them. A hail came from the commander, a tall young man with an unslept, nervous look on his thin face.
“Come alongside, and look sharp about it. I want the captain,” he called.
None of the boat’s crew moved, but all at once the elderly cook broke forth in a voice of grievous exasperation:
“Godalmighty, Cap’n, whatever made ye put on your best duds? Why the hell didn’t ye get into some old slops?—an’ then I could ha’ passed for ye easy!”