“My God!” cried Stringer, and fell back with upraised arms as if hoping to fend off that giant menace.
He lurched, as the cutter was again diverted sharply from its course, and must have fallen under the very bows of the oncoming liner, had not one of the lookouts caught him by the collar and jerked him sharply back into the boat.
A blaze of light burst out over them, and there were conflicting voices raised one in opposition to another. Above them all, even above the beating of the twin screws and the churning of the inky water, arose that of an officer from the bridge of the steamer.
“Where the flaming hell are you going?” inquired this stentorian voice; “haven’t you got any blasted eyes and ears”…
High on the wash of the liner rode the police boat; down she plunged again, and began to roll perilously; up again—swimming it seemed upon frothing milk.
The clangor of bells, of voices, and of churning screws died, remote, astern.
“Damn close shave!” cried Rogers. “It must be clear ahead; they’ve just run into it.”
One of the men on the lookout in the bows, who had never departed from his duty for an instant throughout this frightful commotion, now reported:
“Cutter crossing our bow, sir! Getting back to her course.”
