'The brute's got the legs of us,
and it'll only take one o' those twelve-pounders to settle our hash.
Still, it's no use crying till we're hurt, and the Turks ain't the best
gunners in the world.'
'Crash!' Another shell screamed out of the mist.
'Nearer!' said Roy grimly, as the ugly missile fell alongside, sending up
a fountain of brine.
'Watch her, doing the outside edge!' he continued, as the launch curved
swiftly to port. 'That'll throw 'em off their shooting. Ah, I told you
so'--as the third shell went wide.
'We can't shoot back,' growled Dimmock. 'That's the worst of these rotten
little bow guns.'
'No, it's simply a matter of running and dodging,' said Ken, and turning
went back to where his father was standing.
'Poor luck, Ken,' said the latter with his usual calmness. 'The beggar's
gaining hand over fist. She's at least five knots faster than we.'
'Well, we've hurt the Turks a jolly sight worse than they can hurt us,
that's one comfort, dad,' Ken replied. 'They can't replace that
ammunition.
Pages:
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297