he cold calmness of a hangman.

A bullet, nearly coincident with the report of a pistol, came from the
bridge; and there was Forsythe, with one hand on the wheel, facing aft
and taking second aim at him.

Denman accepted the challenge, and stepped boldly out of the companion.
They emptied their revolvers, but neither did damage; and, as Forsythe
reloaded, Denman cast a momentary glance at a black spot in the southern
sky.

Hurriedly sweeping the upper horizon, he saw still another to the east;
while out of the haze in the northwest was emerging a scout cruiser; no
doubt the "mother" of the first monoplane. She was but two miles away,
and soon began spitting shot and shell, which plowed up the water
perilously near.

"You're caught, Forsythe," called out Denman, pointing to the south and
east. "Will you surrender before we're sunk or killed?"

Forsythe's answer was another shot.

"Florrie," called Denman down the companion, "hand me your gun and pass
up the tablecloth; then get down that hatch out of the way. We're being
fired at."

She obeyed him; and, with Forsythe's bullets whistling around his head,
he hoisted the flag of truce and surrender to the flagstaff. But just a
moment too late. A shell entered the boat amidships and exploded in her
vitals, sending up through the engine-room hatch a cloud of smoke and
white steam, while fragments of the shell punctured the deck from below.
But there were no cries of pain or calls for help from the three men in
the engine room.

Forsythe left the bridge. Breathing vengeance and raging like a madman,
he rushed aft.

"I'll see you go first!" he shrieked. He fired again and again as he
came; then, realizing that he had but one bullet left in his pistol, he
halted at the galley hatch, took careful aim, and pulled the trigger for
the last time.

There are tricks of the fighting trade taught to naval officers that are
not included in the curriculum at Annapolis. Denman, his loaded revolver
hanging in his right hand at his side, had waited for this final shot.
Like a duelist he watched, not his opponent's hand, but his eye; and,
the moment that eye gave him the unconcealable signal to the trigger
finger, he ducked his head, and the bullet sped above.

"Now, Forsythe," he said, as he covered the chagrined marksman, "you
should have aimed lower and to the right--but that's all past now. This
boat is practically captured, and I'm not going to kill you; for, even
though it