“Stand there, sir, till you’ve done it!” quavered Captain Jack.

“Will you signal the order?”

“No, sir!  You’ll get it by voice.”

As Benson wheeled, dashing away, he had an instant’s glimpse, sideways, of Hal Hastings’s face.  Great as Jack’s haste was, that look at his chum’s face haunted him.

There was no time for sentiment, now, though.  It was literally do or die!

The “Thor” was now three hundred yards astern, making frantic efforts to lessen the distance, yet actually losing time.

Ahead, the derelict was now some fifteen hundred yards away.  The half-sunken wreck still presented a broadside, as shown by the positions of two stumps of masts.

“What range are you going to fire at?” asked Eph Somers.

“The torpedo is set for six hundred yards; we’ll fire at three hundred.”

Captain Jack’s voice was cooler, steadier, now.  The first great strain had subsided.  He was cool, tense, now—­though not a whit less determined to win at all hazards.

As there was still some time to spare, and Eph could handle the “Hastings” as well as any other helmsman on earth, Jack stepped back to the conning tower.

Lieutenant Danvers was there, though with his gaze astern.

“I can just picture old Rhinds,” laughed Captain Jack, a bit harshly.  “He’s saying hard things about us, for cutting in on his course and getting the derelict away from him.”

Danvers laughed.

“The old fellow is swearing a blue streak, and threatening himself with an apoplectic stroke every instant.”

“You don’t seem to love Mr. Rhinds very noticeably,” grimaced the naval officer.

“If I don’t,” voiced Jack, “neither do any of our crowd.  And the reason is more than mere business rivalry, too.”

Lieutenant Danvers knew nothing whatever of the dastardly attempts against the Pollard crowd that Rhinds and Radwin had engineered.

It was not a time, however, in which to waste precious moments looking back at the more tardy rival boat.

Jack wheeled, bracing himself against the conning tower.  They were now within eight hundred yards of the derelict’s broadside-on.

How the “Hastings” seemed to crawl over the last of the intervening water space!  Yet Hal realized, if Jack did not, how swiftly the submarine was racing.

“Five hundred yards!” clicked Jack, and stepped inside the conning tower, snatching up a megaphone.

Four hundred and fifty—­four hundred—­three-fifty—­three-twenty-five!  “Fire!”

That last word was bellowed below through the megaphone.  Jack, his eyes staring forward, saw something leap near the bow, and saw an upward dash of spray.  The torpedo had left the tube.

“Hard-aport, Eph!  Swing her right over.  So!”

From his own post in the conning tower Benson signaled for slow speed, now.  It would never do to stop the overheated engines utterly.  Besides, seaway was needed, with the rival craft coming up behind.