Rogers
turned the head of the cutter sharply to starboard but did not slacken
speed. The continuous roar grew deeper, grew louder.
"Sharp lookout there!" cried the inspector from the stern.
Suddenly over their bows uprose a black mass.
"My God!" cried Stringer, and fell back with upraised arms as if hoping
to fend off that giant menace.
He lurched, as the cutter was again diverted sharply from its course,
and must have fallen under the very bows of the oncoming liner, had not
one of the lookouts caught him by the collar and jerked him sharply back
into the boat.
A blaze of light burst out over them, and there were conflicting voices
raised one in opposition to another. Above them all, even above the
beating of the twin screws and the churning of the inky water, arose
that of an officer from the bridge of the steamer.
"Where the flaming hell are YOU going?" inquired this stentorian voice;
"haven't you got any blasted eyes and ears"...
High on the wash of the liner rode the police boat; down she plunged
again, and began to roll perilously; up again--swimming it seemed upon
frothing milk.
The clangor of bells, of voices, and of churning screws died, remote,
astern.
"Damn close shave!" cried Rogers. "It must be clear ahead; they've just
run into it.
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