The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Sea Monarch

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Sea MonarchThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The Sea MonarchAuthor: Percy F. WestermanIllustrator: E. S. HodgsonRelease date: September 29, 2018 [eBook #57989]Most recently updated: December 2, 2018Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by R.G.P.M. van Giesen*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEA MONARCH ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The Sea MonarchAuthor: Percy F. WestermanIllustrator: E. S. HodgsonRelease date: September 29, 2018 [eBook #57989]Most recently updated: December 2, 2018Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by R.G.P.M. van Giesen

Title: The Sea Monarch

Author: Percy F. WestermanIllustrator: E. S. Hodgson

Author: Percy F. Westerman

Illustrator: E. S. Hodgson

Release date: September 29, 2018 [eBook #57989]Most recently updated: December 2, 2018

Language: English

Credits: Produced by R.G.P.M. van Giesen

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEA MONARCH ***

[Illustration: cover of "The Captain" volume XXV]

THESEA MONARCHByPercy F. Westerman

Transcriber's Notes:Mr. Percy F. Westerman has written this story for:THE CAPTAINA MAGAZINE FOR BOYS & "OLD BOYS".VOL. XXVAPRIL to SEPTEMBER, 1911London:GEORGE NEWNES, LIMITED, 3 to 12, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND.The magazine was a periodical that appeared monthly and was also sold in volumes of 6 months, in this case April to September of 1911. In the index of this volume the story appeared as follows:SEA MONARCH, THE.By Percy F. Westerman 4098, 217, 311, 386, 482Each instalment, except the first, has a copyright-statementat the bottom of the first page:Copyright1911,by George Newness, Ltd., in the United Statesof America.

Mr. Percy F. Westerman has written this story for:THE CAPTAINA MAGAZINE FOR BOYS & "OLD BOYS".VOL. XXVAPRIL to SEPTEMBER, 1911London:GEORGE NEWNES, LIMITED, 3 to 12, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND.The magazine was a periodical that appeared monthly and was also sold in volumes of 6 months, in this case April to September of 1911. In the index of this volume the story appeared as follows:SEA MONARCH, THE.By Percy F. Westerman 4098, 217, 311, 386, 482Each instalment, except the first, has a copyright-statementat the bottom of the first page:Copyright1911,by George Newness, Ltd., in the United Statesof America.

THE CAPTAINA MAGAZINE FOR BOYS & "OLD BOYS".VOL. XXVAPRIL to SEPTEMBER, 1911London:GEORGE NEWNES, LIMITED, 3 to 12, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND.

IllustrationsCrash! The huge vessel, looming out of the fog, struck the little yacht amidships. The stout planks were shorn through as if made of match-board, and the water poured in a cataract over the lee side.There was the sound of a hasty scuffling; then appeared the head and shoulders of the owner of thePlaymateThe mast snapped off close to the deck, and a block, hurtling through the air, struck Gerald a terrific blow over the head.Staggering to the door he threw it open. To his great surprise he saw a burly sentry standing without.In spite of his strenuous resistance they hauled the deserter out of the empty tank, and then unceremoniously bundled him into the gig."Look here, Mr. Schneider, you've come to the wrong box with your sneaking complaints. So clear out!"Bending over the instrument was a young officer, his head practically covered with a metal cap fitted with receivers.The man staggered, clapped his hand to his shoulder, and fell to the deck, the weapon slipping from his grasp.Schneider cleared the rail, and leapt into the sea.The doomed vessel was instantly swept out of existence. The massive outlines of the cruiser seemed to melt into a hundred thousand fragments.As night fell the searchlights played with unceasing vigilance upon the harbour. Suddenly Captain Brookes turned to Gerald. "Does my compact forbid me using the Z-rays?" he asked.A party of natives appeared on the beach regarding the cruiser with obvious amazement. In their hands they carried long slender spears, which they brandished menacingly.Like a terrier let loose amidst a swarm of rats the submarine dashed towards the canoes.A terrific detonation shook the ground, and a thick cloud of smoke obscured the view of the pinnacle. In an agony of fear the natives threw themselves face downwards in the dust.Seated up to his waist in water was the aviator, clad in an inflated rubber suit. The engine was lost to view, the tips of the twin propellers just projected above the surface."Good shot!" yelled several of the officers on theOlive Branch. For a full ten seconds the monoplane held on its course, then, lurching like a wounded bird, it swooped swiftly downwards.The searchlight revealed a huge circular turret with a pair of monster guns. Slowly the submarine swung round, the light travelling the length of the huge mass of weed-encrusted iron and steel.The four men threw themselves on the astonished foreigners, and a desperate conflict ensued."In view of possible events I must ask you to take up your quarters beneath the armoured deck," said Captain Brookes.An admiral's pinnace was approaching the shatteredOlive Branch. Gerald hastened on deck to receive the distinguished officer.

image: 06_admidships.jpg

[Illustration: Crash! The huge vessel, looming out of the fog, struck the little yacht amidships. The stout planks were shorn through as if made of match-board, and the water poured in a cataract over the lee side. (See page52)]

THE SEA MONARCHBY PERCY F. WESTERMANAuthor of: "A Lad of Grit," "The Quest of the Golden Hope," etc., etc.ILLUSTRATED BY E. S. HODGSON

image: chapter_01.jpg[Illustration: CHAPTER I]

IT was a scorching afternoon in the month of August. The slanting rays of the sun beat powerfully upon the tranquil waters of Portsmouth Harbour, while the white ensigns of the numerous warships fluttered idly in the almost motionless air.

Swinging easily at her moorings to the first of the young flood lay the torpedo-boat destroyerCalder, presenting a very different appearance from its trim state of a few days before. Engine-room defects had occasioned her return to harbour, and as these were of a somewhat serious nature, the opportunity was taken to place the destroyer into dockyard hands for at least two months. The commissioned officers had obtained permission to go on leave, while theCalder, in the charge of a gunner, was to be put into dock the following day.

Ting-ting! Ting-ting! Ting-ting! Ting-ting!Eight bells had hardly sounded ere two men appeared on deck, scrambling agilely through the small hatchway that did duty for the ward-room companion. The first was the tall, lean-featured lieutenant-commander. The other, Sub-Lieutenant Gerald Tregarthen, needs a slightly longer introduction.

He was almost the same height as the commander, or a fraction under 5ft. 11 ins. in his socks, and was broad in proportion. His features, tanned by constant exposure to sun, wind, and spray, were clear-cut, almost boyish in expression, while at times there was a roguish light in his deep blue eyes.

Yet beneath the apparently boyish exterior lurked the spirit of a man. When occasion arose those merry lips would compress themselves into a thin, straight line, the powerful chin would be thrust aggressively forward, and a dangerous glint in his eyes would betoken that resolution, coolness, and daring which are the indispensable characteristics of a successful naval officer.

His service career, in spite of its comparative shortness, had been one continued success, yet success had not been gained without sheer hard work. With a "first" in gunnery, torpedo, and navigation, he found himself at an early age well up on the list for promotion.

Gerald Tregarthen was in mufti; but his well-cut civilian clothes could not conceal the erect bearing and breezy alertness that characterised the British naval officer. Taking advantage of theCalder'stemporary idleness, he had applied and obtained permission for six weeks' leave, and, strange as it may appear, his intention was to spend the best part of that time afloat.

There is a story told of a London 'bus-driver who devoted a rare holiday to playing the role of passenger on his own vehicle. Similar motives doubtless prompt hundreds of bluejackets and marines to hire private skiffs during their leave. One has but to go to Southsea beach, the shores of the Hamoaze, or the mouth of the Medway to see jolly tars and jovial "joeys" rowing in shore-boats as if that form of recreation was the greatest treat imaginable. It is, then, not so much to be wondered at that Gerald Tregarthen elected to spend most of his leave on board the 4-ton cutterPlaymate, at that moment lying in Poole Harbour, the yacht being owned by his old school-chum, Jack Stockton.

The appearance of the two officers on deck was immediately followed by the hoarse orders of the quarter-master. The boat's crew manned the falls, and the little craft was brought alongside the destroyer's starboard quarter. Tregarthen's luggage, consisting only of a well-filled portmanteau, was handed over the side, and, having bade his senior officer goodbye, the sub-lieutenant took his place in the stern-sheets. A quarter of an hour later Gerald Tregarthen landed at the King's Stairs, and, followed by a seaman bearing his portmanteau, walked rapidly through the dockyard to the main gate. Here a lynx-eyed driver; spotting a likely fare, ran his taxi close up to the spot where the young sub. was standing.

"Town station for all you're worth," exclaimed Tregarthen, but ere he could enter the taxi a boy rushed up to him.

"Evening paper, sir? All the latest naval appointments."

This is a bait that rarely fails to draw the naval man. Taking the paper Tregarthen boarded the vehicle, and was soon bowling along towards the railway station.

Two unavoidable delays were sufficient to alter Tregarthen's arrangements, for on arriving at the town station he found that he had missed the 4.45 Bournemouth train by a bare two minutes. Little did he imagine that the loss of those two minutes was fated to effect a tremendous change in his career at no distant date.

"Next train 6.2, sir," replied a porter in answer to the sub.'s anxious inquiry.

"Just my luck. Over an hour to wait," soliloquised the disappointed sub., and sitting down and placing his portmanteau by his side, he unfolded the sheets of the newspaper.

The "Naval Appointments" he read with more than ordinary interest, inwardly commenting on the good luck or otherwise of those of the numerous officers he knew personally. Then the "Movements of H.M. Ships" attracted his attention. Lower down in the columns was a paragraph that, though he paid scant heed to it at the time, was to vitally affect him within the next few days:—

The new ironcladAlmirante Constantleft the Tyne yesterday. A persistent rumour is being circulated in certain quarters that the vessel, which has been built with the utmost secrecy, is not, after all, to become a unit of the Brazilian navy. Our correspondent has made careful and exhaustive inquiries on this point, but the officials concerned maintain a strict reticence. One thing is certain, however—she is not at present armed, the contract for her ordnance being placed, we understand; with an American firm.

"Blest if I can understand why these South American republics want such up-to-date ships," mused the sub. as he turned over the refractory pages. "It's like giving a child a razor to play with. Well, I suppose it means work for the North Country shipyards; but should any European power lay its hands on half a dozen of them I'm afraid our naval supremacy will have but a very small margin. Hallo! What's this?"

A telegram from Wilhelmshaven, dated the 11th inst., states that the Imperial third class cruiserZietanhas arrived here apparently in difficulties, in charge of two tugs. Captain Schloss immediately landed and despatched a lengthy report to the German Admiralty, but, as shore leave is refused, our correspondent is unable to obtain details of the accident from any of the officers or crew. We have reason to believe that a serious disaster has taken place on board.

Later.——From the master of the tugVulkanwe learn that the cruiserZietan, while two hundred miles west of Heligoland, suddenly encountered a violent and unprecedented magnetic storm. Practically every electric wire on board was fused, the wireless gear was hopelessly broken down, and the compasses rendered absolutely useless. TheZietanwas, in fact, instantaneously reduced in fighting value to below that of a cruiser of thirty years ago. It is stated that the ship is still highly charged with electromagnetism, and will have to go into dock for a lengthy period. Captain Schloss was heard to express his doubts that the cruiser would ever be fit for sea-service again.

Gerald Tregarthen read this report with more than ordinary interest. At first he was inclined to scoff at the intelligence. It savoured too much of a fairy story, while it was more than possible that the master of the German tug had been, to use a nautical term, "pumped." Even in his somewhat brief career the sub-lieutenant had experienced several severe electrical storms in the tropics, but the ship's compasses and delicate electrical gear had never been seriously affected. This new danger, should it be repeated, threatened to increase the trials and troubles of the navigator a thousandfold.

"By George!" he exclaimed suddenly. "I must wire to Jack Stockton, or he'll wonder what's happened. But where shall I wire to? It's no use addressing it to the yacht—the post office people will keep the telegram till called for. I have it. I'll wire to Stockton, care of station-master, Poole."

Accordingly Tregarthen strolled over to the post office, discharged his mission, and returned to the dreary platform. At length the long-drawn hour passed, and, taking his seat in a first-class carriage, the sub-lieutenant steeled himself to endure the discomforts of a tedious journey.

At Southampton West his supply of literature was exhausted, so a sixpenny novel and a copy of a London evening paper were purchased. Occupying a prominent position in the newspaper was a further report from Reuter's agent in Wilhelmshaven:—

The mysterious disaster to the cruiserZietanappears to be far more serious than was at first supposed. The ship is evidently heavily charged with an unknown form of electricity. Her standard compass has been sent to the Imperial Laboratory at Berlin. Meanwhile the huge cruiserVon derTann, that was lying in the next dock to that occupied by theZietan, has been affected by the inexplicable current. To avoid further ill-effects, orders have been given to undock theZietanand move her out in the stream.

The next paragraph was to the effect that all telegraphic reports relating to theZietanincident had been received via Middlekerke and Dumpton Gap, the submarine cable between Borkum and Lowestoft being interrupted. A telegraph cable ship had left the Thames in order to locate and remedy the fault.

"Seems something in this business after all," remarked Tregarthen; then, as his eye caught the blurred type of the "Stop Press News," he read:—

Zietanincident cableviaLowestoft reports that all traces of phenomenon have vanished. Compasses and electrical gear in normal working order.

The young officer folded up the paper and thrust it under the straps of his portmanteau. The cheap novel remained unread. For the rest of the journey Tregarthen was in a brown study, cudgelling his brains as to what he would do should he ever find himself in command of a vessel under similar circumstances. It was growing dark as the train drew up at Poole. Alighting, Gerald, rapidly passing along the crowded platform, sought his old school-fellow. But no Jack Stockton was to be seen.

image: chapter_02.jpg[Illustration: CHAPTER II]

ISUPPOSE I must try and find thePlaymate," thought Tregarthen. "Perhaps Jack has not received my wire. I hope he hasn't cleared out without waiting for me, though I shouldn't be surprised. It used to be a favourite trick of his not to wait a minute for anyone."

When Tregarthen had reached the quayside he found that the whole length of the spacious wharf was lined with a double row of coasting brigs, schooners, lighters, and the ubiquitous Rochester barges. On the Hamworthy side the feeble glimmer of the quay lights faintly illuminated the white hulls of a few yachts, but the sub-lieutenant knew that they were of too great a tonnage to correspond with his ideas of thePlaymate.

Where, then, in all that jumble of floating craft, was Stockton's yacht to be found?

Gerald Tregarthen was at a loss. Beyond a few half intoxicated seamen lurching back to their vessels the quay was deserted. He was on the point of making for the nearest hotel when a voice came apparentlyfrom beneath his feet.

"Ferry, sir?"

The young officer looked down. Close to where he stood a flight of stone steps led to the water's edge. It was nearly low tide, and the steps looked particularly uninviting in the dim reflection from the oily water. At the foot of the landing, with barely a couple of inches to spare betwixt the cutwater of a brig and the ponderous rudder of a Thames barge, was a boat, its occupant holding on to a ringbolt in the stonework by means of a short boat-hook.

"Ferry, sir?"

"Do you know of a yacht—a cutter called thePlaymate?" asked Tregarthen.

"Can't say as 'ow I does, sir," replied the ferry-man. "But I'll call my mate; maybe he'll know." And placing his hands trumpet-wise to his mouth he shouted: "Buck-up! Buck-up Cartridge, where be ye?"

The echo of the man's powerful voice had barely died away when a hail came from the opposite shore. "Hulloa, there?" immediately followed by the faint splash of oars.

"Old Buck-up'll know if there be any craft o' that name," remarked the ferry-man, and as the new comer's boat rubbed its nose against the quarter of the ferry-boat the query was anxiously repeated.

"Wot,Playmate, owned by a gent o' the name o' Stockton? Why, sure I do. She's lying off the Stakes."

"Can you put me aboard?" asked Tregarthen, a load removed from his mind at the assurance that his chum had not set sail.

"Certainly, sir," replied Cartridge; and, handing his portmanteau to the ferry-man, who in turn passed it on to the second water-man, Tregarthen stepped across the first craft into the second.

With long, easy strokes the boat glided with the still strong ebb past the line of shipping and into the staked channel. Here, being comparatively open, the N.W. wind blew fresh, and the young officer shivered in spite of his experience on the bridge of a destroyer. He missed the thick pilot-coat, and the comforting shelter of the storm-dodgers.

Between long, low banks of reeking mud the boat passed, till at length, a good quarterof a mile from the quay, appeared the dim outlines of half a dozen yachts of all sizes, their anchor-lights gleaming fitfully upon the dew-sodden decks and mainsail covers, and casting broken shafts of light upon the ruffled water.

"There be thePlaymate, sir," exclaimed the waterman, resting on his oars and looking over his shoulder. Tregarthen followed the direction of his gaze.

Twenty yards away lay a smart little white cutter. Even in the gloom the sub-lieutenant could distinguish her graceful spoon bow, her short yet becoming quarter, and the businesslike sheer of her sides. Across her boom a canvas awning was lashed over the diminutive cockpit. From the cabin a light flickered upon the awning, and gleamed cheerfully through the fluted glass skylight. To Tregarthen the vision of that light seemed an indescribable comfort. The tedious journey, the disappointment of Stockton's non-appearance, the cheerless welcome of the bleak and desolate harbour—all were forgotten. He had found a haven of rest.

"Playmate, ahoy!"

The waterman jerked one oar into his boat and with the other skilfully checked her way till she gently rubbed sides with the yacht.

"Hallo, there! Is that you, Cartridge?"

"Yes, sir; I've brought a gent off to see you."

There was the sound of a hasty scuffling, the awning was partially unlaced, and a hand holding a lantern appeared, followed by the head and shoulders of the owner of the cutterPlaymate.

The rays of the lamp fell upon the features of the owner. He had a somewhat long, thin face, with a characteristically square jaw, and light eyebrows that formed an almost continuous line across his brows.

"Hallo, you!" he exclaimed, as the identity of his visitor was revealed. "I'd given you up."

"So it appears," replied Tregarthen. "Didn't you get my wire?"

"Wire—what wire? But don't stay there; come aboard. You'd better use the fore-hatch, unlacing this awning is a blessed nuisance."

Stockton's head vanished as its owner retreated into the cabin. Tregarthen, having paid the boatman, seized the main shrouds and swung himself lightly on deck. Then making his way for'ard he removed the partially open hatchway leading to the fo'c'sle.

"Hold on! Hold on a minute!" shouted Jack. "You're putting your foot into the soup!"

Checking his downward progress just in time, Gerald waited till the skipper, and cook combined, removed a saucepan from the top of a roaring Primus stove, pushed the stove out of the way, and gave the word that all was clear.

The next instant Tregarthen found himself in the fo'c'sle.

It was a small, wedge-shaped apartment, barely 4ft. in height and 7ft. wide at its broadest part, tapering away to less than 6ins. for'ard. This limited space was still further curtailed by a number of lockers and cupboards, the stove, a bundle of sails and warps, and the still weed-covered chain cable. Jack Stockton, pipe in mouth, and huddled up on an upturned bucket, was busily engaged in preparing some flat-fish, that he had just caught, for supper.

Gerald began to cough. What with the heat of the stove, the tobacco smoke, the combined odours of the fish, the soup, and the seaweed, to say nothing of the smoky paraffin lamp, made the confined quarters well-nigh unbearable. It was infinitely worse than the fo'c'sle of a destroyer in a heavy seaway, yet Stockton endured it with equanimity—even with pleasure. It was one of the joys of yachting in the rough.

"Excuse the mess!" he exclaimed. "You see, I didn't expect you after the arrival of the train you agreed upon. But I'll have everything shipshape in a jiffy. Where's your gear?"

"On deck."

"Then bring it below. You may as well get into the cabin, and I'll be with you soon. Mind your head!"

The warning came too late. Tregarthen forgot that the cabin of a 4-ton yacht is a mere dog-kennel compared with the diminutive wardroom ofH.M.S. Calder, but luckily his thick cap saved his skull from a nasty blow from a deck beam.

Then with a thud his portmanteau was deposited on the floor of the fo'c'sle, and Stockton's voice was heard: "Here, bear a hand, and get this thing into the cabin."

Gerald hastened to give the requested assistance. This time the small of his arched back came into violent contact with the top of the doorway communicating with the fo'c'sle. Thereupon, acting with more discretion, he slowly dragged his belongings into the cabin, and sat down upon one of the sofa-bunks.

By degrees he recovered his ruffled composure, and took a careful survey of his limited surroundings. A glance in a bevelled mirror revealed the fact that his encounter with the deck-beam had had the effect of crumpling his collar into a series of longitudinal creases.

"It's time I put a sweater on," he thought, and opening his portmanteau he produced one of those thick, serviceable articles, and measuring the distance between his head and the deck-beams—a margin of barely 6ins.—Tregarthen removed his collar and plunged into his sweater. This done his sense of comfort was materially increased.

image: 07_scuffling.jpg

[Illustration: There was the sound of a hasty scuffling; then appeared the head and shoulders of the owner of thePlaymate]

"Now what do you propose doing?" he asked, as the crew of thePlaymatetackled a hearty supper. "Going west?"

"I thought of making a dash across the Channel. Any objection?"

Tregarthen whistled.

"Bit risky, isn't it?"

"I don't think so. This packet is as stiff as a house; the gear's sound, and all the stores are aboard."

"You've a compass, of course?"

"A little beauty."

"Then I'm game. By the bye, have you seen to-day's paper?"

"No; I went ashore, but quite forgot to get one. Why—anything startling?"

"Only this," replied Gerald, producing the newspapers he had purchased on the journey, and pointing to theZietanparagraph. "What do you think of it?"

"Not much," replied Jack, in a matter-of-fact tone. "At any rate, I don't suppose it will affect us."

"When do you propose to make a start?" Stockton did not immediately reply, but, gaining the cockpit, he unlaced a portion of the awning.

"Now if you like," he replied. "The young flood has set in, though, but with the wind in this quarter we can stem it and pick up the east-going tide outside. Just hand me down that bundle of charts."

Gerald did so, and his chum picked out one of the English Channel.

"We ought to make St. Catherine's beforedaybreak," continued Jack "And then with a decent slice of luck we can make a slant across and pick up Cape Barfleur before sunset. It's barely fifty miles as the crow flies. So we'll get under way now, and when we are outside the harbour you can turn in. I had a good spell below during the day, so a night's watch won't trouble me."

"All right; I'm game," repeated Tregarthen. Twenty minutes later thePlaymatewas heeling over to the steady breeze. Her voyage, that was fated to be the forerunner of a wealth of peculiar adventures, had begun.

image: chapter_03.jpg[Illustration: CHAPTER III]

AFEW years ago a commander-in-chief is reported to have declared that our seamen are the worst boat-sailors in the world, while another naval officer of high rank has written: "I don't think there is any foreign navy that is not better than us in the handling of their boats—ours is a disgrace." Thanks, however, to the forethought of the Admiralty in providing fore and aft rigged cutters for the use of the cadets at Dartmouth this stigma is gradually being removed.

Owing to the opportunities thus provided Gerald Tregarthen was no novice on board a yacht. He had steered the college cutters to victory on several occasions, and, now once having acquired the knack of dealing with thePlaymate'speculiarities, he was quite capable of taking charge of the tiller while Jack Stockton attended to the numerous duties so necessary when about to make a long passage.

Gallantly breasting the young flood thePlaymatethrashed her way down the well-lighted channel, passed between the sandy dunes that mark the entrance to Poole Harbour, and negotiated the long, buoyed passage under the lee of Studland Heath. Then, the outer bar-buoy being rounded, the yacht was gybing, and her course shaped for the as yet invisible Needles Light.

This done Jack Stockton put on his oilskins, in anticipation of a "dusting," and Gerald Tregarthen turned in for a few hours' rest.

Left to himself the skipper of thePlaymatesettled down to his night's vigil. Lighting his pipe he took up a position on the lee side of the cockpit, whence, by occasionally raising himself, he could command a view ahead. Then, keeping the lee shrouds in line with a conveniently placed star, he was able to dispense with the inconvenience of having his eyes glued to the compass-card. Jack was an old hand at the pastime of yachting. Scorning the use of a motor as being detrimental to the joys of sailing, he relied upon his weather lore, the judicious use of the barometer, and a thorough knowledge of the tides to make his voyages, and rarely did he fail to make his desired port. He was an ideal yachtsman—calm and resolute in difficulties, patient in adverse circumstances, loth to run unnecessary risks, yet full of courage and reliance.

With the pale grey dawn thePlaymatewas within the influence of the mighty St. Catherine's Race, where, fair weather or foul, the tide surges over the uneven bed of the sea at a good five knots.

"Pity to wake him," exclaimed Stockton, as he put the helm hard up, jibbed, and headed for the distant French coast. "Still it can't be helped."

With the gybe Gerald Tregarthen's berth on the leeward side was transformed into the windward one, and the heel and pitching of the little craft deposited him bodily on the floor of the cabin.

"Hallo! Where are we?" he asked, sleepily.

"You, my dear fellow, are wedged in between the swing-table and the floor; I am still at the helm, waiting to be relieved; and thePlaymateis approximately two miles southwest of St. Catherine's. Have I made clear our relative positions?"

"Quite, old fellow," replied Tregarthen, scrambling out of the partially closed sliding hatchway. "I'll give you a spell."

"Here you are, sou' by west quarter west," said Stockton, indicating the course; and crawling into the fo'c'sle, he was soon hard at work preparing breakfast.

Having satisfied himself as to the course Tregarthen looked astern. It was a magnificent picture. Away on the port hand a huge man-of-war was heading towards Spithead. By her tripod masts and the peculiar arrangement of her funnels and upper works the sub-lieutenant recognised her as theFoudroyant, the latest phase in British naval construction. A mile ahead was a topsail schooner, close-hauled on the starboard tack, her brown and patched canvas gilded by the slanting rays of sunshine, while still further away a few tramps weresteaming steadily up Channel, their outlines barely discernible against the morning mist. "How's the glass?" asked Gerald, as his chum regained the cockpit with a deep tray covered with eatables.

"Steady as a rock. Here, wedge this tray in somewhere, and I'll bring out the coffee. We must rough it a bit when we are having meals under way."

In spite of the pitching of the yacht both members of the crew did full justice to the meal. This over, Jack resumed his place at the helm, and Gerald proceeded to his task of "washing up."

The young sub-lieutenant could not help laughing at the ludicrousness of his position. Here was he—an officer of H.M. Navy—cooped up in a most uncomfortable posture in a cramped fo'c'sle, and undertaking a task that he had never before performed. How his brother-officers would roar with amusement could they but see him. Yet he had to confess that the novelty of the whole thing was delightful.

"What about a wash?" he asked, some time later.

"You'll have to whistle for one," replied Jack. "At least, till we reach port. Fresh water's precious at the present time. I'll tell you what—we'll have a bathe over the side."

Gerald looked at the wake of the little craft. ThePlaymatewas bowling along at a bare three knots, and having passed the disturbed waters of the race was now sailing more steadily in the gentle, regular heave of the open Channel.

"How will you manage it—heave-to?"

"No; one at a time. Keep her as she is." Jack quickly divested himself of his clothing, and, grasping the bight of the slackened-off main-sheet, he lowered himself into the sea. There he hung, towed through the waves, with a miniature cascade pouring over his head, till, having had enough, he dexterously regained the yacht.

"Capital!" he exclaimed, shaking the dripping water from his face. "But it's much colder than one would expect for the time of year."

"Deep water always is," replied Gerald, as he prepared to follow his companion's example.

"Are you going to get the dinghy aboard?" he asked, after the ablutionary exercises had been completed. "She's a bit of a drag astern, I fancy."

"No; let her stop. I'm going to turn in now. If it comes on to blow—I don't think it will—give me a shout, and we'll soon whip the dinghy aboard and lash her down securely. In any case turn me out at eight bells."

Gerald thereupon took charge of the helm. ThePlaymatehad already reeled off more than thirty miles of her cross-Channel passage. But though the atmosphere astern was perfectly clear, ahead the horizon was obscured by a haze that blended sea and sky together in an indistinct blurr. The wind, too, was slowly yet gradually dying away, and the yacht was doing little more than two knots.

With the falling of the wind the haze increased in density, so that, two hours after Gerald had taken the helm, thePlaymatewas fairly in the thick of a dreaded sea-fog.

"Jack, old man, have you a fog-horn aboard?"

Stockton was wide-awake in an instant.

"By George! This is thick," he exclaimed, for already the yacht's bowsprit end was lost to view in the white, curling vapour. "No, I've no fog-horn; I always use a rowlock. Here's one. We'll lash it up to the sliding-hatch."

This done, he struck the suspended rowlock a couple of sharp taps with a mallet.

"There's enough noise to warn any vessel within a cable's length of us," he continued. Gerald grunted. He knew the ways of the sea. A tramp steamer, forging through the fog at a steady eight knots—as they frequently do—would not pay much heed to anything less than a siren.

"All right," he assented; "I'll see to that. You may as well turn in again."

"I've had enough sleep to last me for a time," replied Jack. "I'll keep watch with you. Here, put this on, or you'll get soaked to the skin," he added, producing an oilskin from one of the lockers, and proceeding to don a second one himself.

"What's that?" asked Gerald, after a prolonged interval, as a dull, pulsating sound, quite unlike the noise of a steamer's engines, was borne faintly to their ears.

"Hanged if I know! Here, old chap, get a sweep out, and keep way on her. I'll sound the fog-bell."

Tregarthen did as he was asked, for the yacht was now practically becalmed, while Stockton made a vigorous onslaught upon the improvised fog-bell with his mallet.

Nearer and nearer came the mysteriousvibrating sound; then, with appalling suddenness, a shrill, long-drawn blast from a siren sounded as if from overhead.

"By Jove! We'll be run down!" exclaimed Jack, calmly, though he fully realised the danger.

The next instant a hoarse voice shouted: "Ahoy there! Starboard your helm!"

Instinctively Jack thrust the tiller hard over; the yacht, responding slowly to the helm, commenced to describe a wide curve; but in less than ten seconds from the time of the hail a ponderous monster of grey-coloured steel loomed out of the fog, its upper portion lost to view in the mist.

Crash!

Although doing a bare five knots the sharp steel bow of the huge vessel caught thePlaymatefairly on the port side amidships. The stout planks were shorn through as if made of match-board, the mast snapped off close to the deck, and, as the stick with its spread of canvas fell over the side the water poured in a cataract over the lee-coaming, and through the huge rent in the side of the doomed yacht.

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