"Stand there, sir, till you've done it!" quavered Captain Jack.
"Will you signal the order?"
"No, sir! You'll get it by voice."
As Benson wheeled, dashing away, he had an instant's glimpse, sideways, of Hal Hastings's face. Great as Jack's haste was, that look at his chum's face haunted him.
There was no time for sentiment, now, though. It was literally do or die!
The "Thor" was now three hundred yards astern, making frantic efforts to lessen the distance, yet actually losing time.
Ahead, the derelict was now some fifteen hundred yards away. The half-sunken wreck still presented a broadside, as shown by the positions of two stumps of masts.
"What range are you going to fire at?" asked Eph Somers.
"The torpedo is set for six hundred yards; we'll fire at three hundred."
Captain Jack's voice was cooler, steadier, now. The first great strain had subsided. He was cool, tense, now—though not a whit less determined to win at all hazards.