"He wants his glass," said Ralph, seizing the instrument in question.
"I must go."
"Well," concluded Duff as he returned to his own stateroom, "lay low
and look out for squalls. That's all we can do at present."
When Ralph returned to the deck the wind was stiffening to a gale, and
half a dozen men were putting a single reef into the mainsail, while
several more were laying out along the bowsprit doing the same office
for one of the jibs.
The outermost one, called the flyaway, was being furled, though the
sailor stretched out upon the stay beneath the bowsprit was drenched by
each downward plunge of the schooner's bow. The Adams still carried a
heavy press of canvas, though black specks of men could be seen on the
yards shortening the loftier sails. The larger vessel rode the rising
seas more easily, and had already come within close range.
Gary seized the glass and leveled it at the cruiser, then at the
southwestern horizon, where a dull gray film of vapor was settled upon
the sea.
He handed the glass to Rucker and swore impatiently.
"If we have half an hour more of this wind we're gone up," he growled.
"Our only chance is a fog."
A puff of smoke belched from the port bow of the warship.
"They understand what that fog might do for us as well as we do,"
remarked Rucker, as a shell exploded some distance to leeward.
"They'll get the range in a few minutes, and when one of those twelve
pound bombs explodes in our tops----"
"They see that solid shot won't do," interrupted Gary fiercely.
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