hrough."

Gates now sent the men to stations for we were within a half a mile of
the _Orchid_. Then Tommy stepped into our rifle pit and laid down. I
followed. Quietly each of us beat a crease in the soaked canvas through
which we could fire without showing too much head.

The mate, crouched below, tried his new steering device as Gates sang up
an order, and swore a jovial oath at the ease with which the _Whim_
responded. Within his reach was an automatic, and he looked the very
picture of contentment.

Along the side of my rifle barrel now resting in the crease I took a
good look at the _Orchid_ sailing with apparent unconcern but a short
way out from us, but I could picture the activity and hatred seething
below her deck. I wondered what Sylvia might be thinking about all this;
if she associated our pursuit by the slightest imaginative thread with a
fellow who impolitely stared at her in a Havana cafe, yet to whom she
had been willing to cry: "I am in danger!" Presumptuous fallacy! Then
other thoughts began to race through my brain. Now that we were face to
face with action, how were we going to come out? Had I a right to
imperil those who were sailing with me? Was it not my duty, even at this
eleventh hour, to order the _Whim_ back?

I turned to Tommy, saying:

"You didn't ship for this kind of thing, old man. If anything happens to
you I'll feel like the devil."

"So'll I," he grinned. "Don't bother about how you'll feel if anything
happens to _me_; keep those regrets for the moment a hot pill
investigates your own honorable insides, Mr. Jackass! I wouldn't miss
this party for a million dollar bill. Settle down, now. Gates is
pointing closer." Then, peeping along his rifle, he crooned one of our
regimental paraphrases: "Stick your head up, Fritzy-Fritz, while I plug
you in the gizzard," adding: "I don't see anyone at their wheel!"

I took another squint and, just as he had said, their deck was
deserted--not a man in sight.

"What d'you make of it?" I asked.

"Get down," he warned. "Don't forget that anyone who could center our
searchlight, as some crafty boy did last night, won't have much trouble
peeling a scalp at three hundred yards! They've probably made a steering
rig like ours, that's all. The first thing we know bally hell will spit
out of those portholes, if my guess counts! Beats a trench raid, doesn't
it, old man?"

"All hollow," I agreed. "We've got 'em this trip!"

"We have unless they carr