Immediately all was excitement aboard. Evidently we should have to force our passage through them, and everyone was keenly awaiting the signal to get into "line of battle." But the signal did not come.
A heavy white fog came stealing across the face of the waters, and in a very few moments had swallowed up sea and sky and ships in its devouring obscurity.
Then came a signal to stop engines, and soon the entire fleet had stopped and were lying almost as if at anchor.
Besides myself, the officers of the Quickmatch consisted of a lieutenant, Taylor, who acted as my first lieutenant and performed the navigating duties; a sub-lieutenant, Hastings, fresh from college; an engineer officer; and a gunner, a fine specimen of a self-educated bluejacket who resolutely sets himself to climb the ladder of promotion from the lower deck.
We were standing together on the quarter-deck discussing the probability of the fog lifting, when I was surprised by a signal from Admiral Beaufoy, ordering me to repair aboard the flag-ship.
I lost no time in obeying his summons, and in a few minutes was standing in his cabin.
The Admiral, who was pacing to and fro when I entered, stopped and curiously regarded me for a few embarrassing seconds.
"Ralph," he said at length, "I have decided to entrust you with a difficult and dangerous mission."
I bowed in silence, wondering to what this was to lead. Evidently it was something serious, and success would mean promotion, and promotion—marriage! And at that thought my lovelorn mind went back to the picture of Bertha seated under the old elm tree, a picture so sweet that for an instant I entirely forgot the business on hand.
I was recalled from my day-dreams by the cold, calm voice of the Admiral. "The position," he was saying, "as you are aware, is this:—