more speed if necessary."

Frank smiled.

"Let's hope it won't be necessary, chief," he replied.

He inspected the room closely for some moments, then returned to the
bridge and reported to Captain Templeton.

The sea was rough, but nevertheless the speed of the flotilla was not
slackened. It was the desire of Captain Petlow, in charge of the destroyer
fleet, to convoy the transports beyond the danger point at the earliest
possible moment.

The Plymouth lurched up on top of a crest, then dived head-first into the
trough. On the bridge the heave and pitch of the vessel was felt
subconsciously, but the eyes and minds of the officers were busied with
other things. At every touch of the helm the vessel vibrated heavily.

Eight bells struck.

"Twelve o'clock," said Frank. "Time to eat."

The bridge was turned over to the second officer, and Frank and Jack went
below.

"Eat is right, Frank," said Jack as they sat down. "We can't dine in this
weather."

It was true. The rolling boards, well enough for easy weather, proved a