Even Jocelyn
Thew's firm hand had trembled, a moment ago, as he had lowered his
glasses. Crawshay, seated upon his lifebelt, with a mackintosh
buttoned around him, his eyeglass firmly adjusted, his mouth
querulous, was not exactly an impressive-looking object. Yet
she wondered.
"Give me your hand," she asked suddenly.
He obeyed at once. The fingers were cool and firm.
"Why do you pretend to be afraid?" she demanded. "You aren't in the
least."
"Amateur theatricals," he replied tersely, "coupled with a certain
amount of self-control. I am a cool-tempered fellow at most
times.--Jove, this one's meant for us, I believe!"
They all ducked instinctively. The shell, however, fell short.
Crawshay measured the distance between the two steamers with his eyes.
"Dashed if I don't believe we're giving them the slip!" he exclaimed.
"I wonder why in thunder they're letting us off like this! The captain
must have known something."
Jocelyn Thew turned around and looked reflectively at the speaker. For
a single moment Crawshay's muscles tingled with the apprehension
of danger. There was a smouldering light in the other's eyes, such a
light as might gleam in the tiger's eyes before his spring. Crawshay's
hand slipped to his hip pocket.
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