After him plunged Jack Benson. Below, both became cooler, for the task
in hand must not be bungled. On one of the trucks they dragged a torpedo
forward, fitting it in the tube.
As he closed the after port behind the torpedo, Jack bent over to place
Jacob Farnum's hand on the firing lever.
"Stand there, sir, till you've done it!" quavered Captain Jack.
"Will you signal the order?"
"No, sir! You'll get it by voice."
As Benson wheeled, dashing away, he had an instant's glimpse, sideways,
of Hal Hastings's face. Great as Jack's haste was, that look at his
chum's face haunted him.
There was no time for sentiment, now, though. It was literally do or
die!
The "Thor" was now three hundred yards astern, making frantic efforts to
lessen the distance, yet actually losing time.
Ahead, the derelict was now some fifteen hundred yards away. The
half-sunken wreck still presented a broadside, as shown by the positions
of two stumps of masts.
"What range are you going to fire at?" asked Eph Somers.
"The torpedo is set for six hundred yards; we'll fire at three hundred.
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