Within less than a quarter of an hour
a mile of the steamer's lead had gone. Another five minutes and the
distance between the two was barely twelve hundred yards.
'Hallo, they're getting gay!' remarked the big bluejacket, as rifles began
to spit and bullets to throw up little jets of spray around the rushing
submarine.
Presently one clanged against the conning tower itself. Commander Strang
gave an order, and a little row of bunting ran up on the tiny mast of the
submarine.
'"Heave to, or I'll sink you," that means,' observed Ken's friend.
The only response was a thicker hail of bullets. But the low deck of G2,
flying onwards as she was at about twenty-two land miles an hour, made a
poor target, and the Turks failed to do any damage beyond knocking a
little paint off.
'Confound 'em!' growled Strang. 'They haven't got sense enough to come in
out of the rain. Give 'em a shell, Watson.'
The long gray 12-pounder was ready. Her vicious-looking muzzle swung
round. There was a ringing bang, and the shell, small but charged with
deadly lyddite, spun away on its errand.
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