in code. The hands of the clock pointed to a quarter to five, the barometer, 30.01, steady; both pieces of information Hamerton entered in a rough logbook.  

The fo'c'sle was small, and, being battened down, ill-ventilated. The heat from the Primus stove and the odour from the frizzling bacon, combined with the erratic pitching and listing of the yacht, would have upset many an experienced sailor, but unperturbed the amateur cook proceeded with his self-imposed task.  

"On deck, there!" shouted Detroit, raising his voice to make himself heard above the roar of the atmospheric stove.  

There was something urgent in the tone of the American's voice. Hamerton backed out of the narrow fo'c'sle door, and, without waiting to put on his oilskin, ran up the ladder and gained the cockpit.  

The fog was not so dense as it had been ten minutes previously. The rising sun had partially dispelled the white wall of vapour, so that it was possible to see about fifty yards ahead.  

"Listen!" exclaimed Oswald.  

"Yes, I hear," replied the Sub. "A steamer of some sort, tearing along at a furious pace. A quarter of a mile off, I should say, but close enough in this mirk."  

With that Hamerton snatched up a fog trumpet that lay on the lee seat of the well, and made the welkin echo to three loud blasts—the recognized signal of a sailing vessel with the wind abaft the beam.  

No reply came from the unknown vessel. Momentarily the noise of her engines and the swish of water as her bows cleft the waves grew louder and louder.  

"Down helm, sharp!" ordered Hamerton. "What in the name of Davy Jones is that idiot carrying on like that for?"  

Round swung the Diomeda slowly yet surely, but before the sails began to flap, the disturber of her crew's peace of mind loomed out of the fog.  

It was a large destroyer, painted a dull grey. She was travelling at close on thirty knots. Dull red flames were spurting from her four squat funnels. Her decks were being swept from end to end with water, while the spray, dashing against her funnels, trailed off into wisps of steam, leaving the fore side of the smoke-stacks bleached with salt. In spite of the wave-washed decks, men, clad in greenish-grey oilskins, were standing by the two torpedo tubes on deck, while right aft stood a seaman holding a 

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