a couple
of hundred miles of them, in which case there was absolutely nothing to
fear. Furthermore, his owners made an especial point of persistently
impressing upon their captains the great importance of--nay, more, the
urgent necessity for--making quick passages; there were two keen-eyed
lookouts stationed upon the topgallant-forecastle, and between them a
third man provided with a fog-horn, upon which he at brief intervals
blew the weirdest of blasts. Taking into consideration all these
circumstances the skipper finally decided to leave things as they were,
and put his trust in the "sweet little cherub that sits up aloft to look
after the life of poor Jack."

"Five bells" pealed out upon the dank air, and the responsive cry of
"All's well" from the look-outs came wailing aft from the forecastle.
Leslie's pipe was out. He knocked out the dead ashes, and turned to go
below. Then, considering the matter further, he decided that it was
full early yet to turn in, and, sauntering across the deck to the port
rail, he stood gazing abstractedly out to windward as he slowly filled
his pipe afresh. The man with the fog-horn was still industriously
blowing long blasts to windward when, ruthlessly cutting into one of
these, there suddenly came--from apparently close at hand, on the port
bow--the loud discordant yell of a steam syren; and the next instant
three lights--red, green, and white, arranged in the form of an
isosceles triangle--broke upon Leslie's gaze with startling suddenness
through the dense fog, broad on the port bow of the _Golden Fleece_. A
large steamer, coming along at full speed, was close aboard and heading
straight for the sailing ship!

Leslie's professional training at once asserted itself and, as a
frenzied shout of "Steamer broad on the port bow!" came pealing aft from
the throats of the two startled lookouts, he made a single bound for the
poop ladder, crying, in a voice that rang through the ship, from stem to
stern--

"Port! hard a-port, for your life! Over with the wheel, for God's
sake!"

His cry was broken in upon by a mad jangling of engine-room bells
accompanied by a perfect babel of excited shouts--evidently in some
foreign tongue--on board the stranger, mingled with equally excited
shouts and the sudden trampling of feet forward, and loud-voiced
commands from Captain Rainhill on the poop. As Leslie reached the head
of the poop ladder the steamer crashed with terrific force into the