"Quartermaster!" shouted Captain Brandon.
"Ay, ay, sir!" rang out a sailor's voice, and the Saigon's number raced a Union Jack to the mast-head.
"Well, Mac?" cried the captain, with his hand on the engine-room signal-bell.
Maclean looked up from the book. "His Imperial Majesty of Russia, by the commander of the converted cruiser Nevski, orders us to stop."
Captain Brandon pressed the lever, and before ten might be counted the shuddering of the Saigon's screw had ceased.
"What next?" he muttered.
As if in answer, another flag fluttered up the Nevski's halliards.
"He will send a boat," interpreted Maclean.
A short period of fret and fume ensued, then a small steam launch rounded the Nevski's bows, and sped like a gray-hound across the intervening space. The Nevski now presented her broadside to the Saigon, and all of her six guns were trained upon the English steamer's decks. The launch was crammed with men. Captain Brandon ordered a gangway to be lowered, and although the tars sprang to the task with great alacrity, it was hardly completed before the launch touched the Saigon's side. An officer, bedizened with gold lace, and accompanied by two glittering subordinates, climbed aboard, and Captain Brandon met him on the main deck. Hugh Maclean, from the bridge, watched them file into the captain's cabin. Ten minutes later they emerged, and without waiting a moment the Russians hurried back into the launch. Captain Brandon's face was purple. He hurriedly mounted to the bridge, and leaning over the rail cursed the departing launch at the top of his voice in five different languages.
"What's the trouble, sir?" asked Maclean when his superior appeared at last to be exhausted.