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.
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