“He says he wants a tow for that boat of his,” reported the sublieutenant.  “Said it in English, too—­seems he knows more than he pretends.”

“Missed it, by gad, by just about five minutes!” said the commander aloud but to himself.  “Well—­the bargain’s made, so it can’t be helped.  That boat’s sinking!  Throw ’em a line, quick!”

The pilot’s crew displayed no overdone affection for their craft, and there was no struggle to the last to leave it.  One by one—­ whichever could grab the line first was the first to come—­they were hauled through the thundering waves and their boat was left to sink.  Then, before they could adjust their unaccustomed feet to the different balance of the Puncher’s heaving deck, the gongs clanged and the destroyer leaped ahead like a dripping sea-soused water beetle, into her utmost speed that instant.

All conscious of his new-won dignity, and utterly regardless of his boat, the pilot had found the bridge at once.  He clung to the rail there and braced one naked foot against a stanchion.  To him the ship’s speed seemed the all-absorbing thing, for either Mr. Hartley had forgotten just how many revolutions would make fifteen knots or else he had underestimated his engine-room’s capacity.  The Puncher split the waves and spewed them twenty feet above her, racing head-on for the reef, and Curley Crothers was too busy at his wheel to pass the pilot the surreptitious insult he intended.

The gongs clanged presently, and the Puncher swallowed half her speed at once, giving the pilot courage.

“This exceedingly damn dangerous place, sah!” he remarked.

“No bottom at eight!” sang Joe Byng in the chains.

Three words passed between the commander and Crothers, and the Puncher hove a weed-draped underside high over the crest of a beam-on roller as she veered a dozen points, ducked her starboard rail into the trough of it, and sliced her long thin nose, sizzling and swirling, into the welter ahead.  It was growing weedier and dirtier each minute.

“No bottom at eight!” chanted Joe Byng.

And at the sound of his voice the pilot hauled himself up by his leverage on the rail and found his voice again.

“This most exceedingly damn dangerous place, sah!”

But the commander was too busy acting all three L’s—­Log, Lead and Lookout—­his shrouded figure swaying to the heave and fall and his eyes fixed straight ahead of him on the double line of boiling foam.  He had conned his course and had it charted in his head.  There was no time to argue with a pilot.

“Port you-ah hel-um, sah!  Port you-ah hel-um!”

“By the mark—­seven!” sang Joe Byng from the chains.

“Port you-ah hel-um, sah!” yelled the pilot in an ecstasy of fright.

“Starboard a little,” came the quiet command.

Curley Crothers moved his wheel and the Puncher’s bow yawed twenty feet, as if Providence had pushed her.