A howl of disappointment went up from the crew.

"Oh, if she was only within range," cried "Hay," smiting the breech of
the five-inch rifle with his hand. "Just one shot, just one shot."

"Guns' crews will remain at stations," ordered the first lieutenant from
near the ladder. "Stand by, men. Be ready for instant action."

"Hurray! the old man won't give it up," cheered "Stump," under his
voice. "That's the stuff. Now, if only that measly fog lifts and we get
a trifle nearer, we'll do something for the old flag."

The minutes passed slowly. It was heartbreaking work, this waiting and
watching, and there was not one of the "Yankee's" crew but would have
given a year's pay to have seen the mist lift long enough to bring us
within range.

Suddenly, just as the fervent wish was trembling on our lips, "Hod
Marsh," who was near the port, cried out joyfully:

"She's fading, fellows, she's fading!"

Like a theatre curtain being slowly raised, the mist lifted from the
surface of the water. Little by little the expanse of ocean became
visible, and at last we, who were watching eagerly, saw the hull of a
steamer appear, followed by masts and stack and upper rigging. An
exclamation of bitter disappointment came from Tommy. "Durned if it
ain't an old tramp!" he groaned. "Fellows, we are sold."

And so it proved.