"Can't imagine what the captain's up to," he complained. "A chap who
understands those little flags has just told me that they've
threatened to blow us to pieces if we go on.--Here comes another
shell!" he groaned. "Two to one they've got us this time!--Ugh!"

They all ducked to avoid a shower of spray. When they stood upright
again, Katharine studied the newcomer for a minute critically. There
was a certain air of strain about most of the passengers. Even Jocelyn
Thew's firm hand had trembled, a moment ago, as he had lowered his
glasses. Crawshay, seated upon his lifebelt, with a mackintosh
buttoned around him, his eyeglass firmly adjusted, his mouth
querulous, was not exactly an impressive-looking object. Yet
she wondered.

"Give me your hand," she asked suddenly.

He obeyed at once. The fingers were cool and firm.

"Why do you pretend to be afraid?" she demanded. "You aren't in the
least."

"Amateur theatricals," he replied tersely, "coupled with a certain
amount of self-control. I am a cool-tempered fellow at most
times.--Jove, this one's meant for us, I believe!"

They all ducked instinctively. The shell, however, fell short.
Crawshay measured the distance between the two steamers with his eyes.

"Dashed if I don't believe we're giving them the slip!" he exclaimed.