“Half speed ahead,” ordered the captain.
The Brooklyn Bridge swept by overhead. The docks and shipping melted into a confusion of masts and smoke-stacks.
Through the harbor the battle-ship glided like a great giant, then turned and headed through the Narrows for the open sea.
The ship was soon well out on the Atlantic, the haze of the city melted astern. The low lying coast of Long Island was dimly in sight on the port hand.
The two friends spent the remainder of the day in getting their bearings in their new home, and when eight o’clock came were quite willing to seek their bunks.
It was midnight when Phil found himself by Lazar’s side on the high bridge of the battle-ship, as junior officer of the watch.
The wind, which had been light at the start, had increased steadily in violence until now the vessel was plunging heavily into the teeth of a moderate gale. Her powerful engines crowded her steel shod prow with terrific force into the rising seas, flinging tons of spray on to her high forecastle.
Lazar stood with his face close to the canvass weather cloth, for the protection of those on the bridge against the force of the blast, and peered through the inky blackness.
The responsibility for the ship rested upon his shoulders for the next four hours.
Turning toward the younger man, he motioned him nearer.