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“I have tried for six years,” continued the captain, “to reform you and hold you to the manhood I once knew in you; but I give you up. You are not fit to live, and will never be fitter to die than this morning, when the chance comes to you to die fighting for your country. But I want you to die fighting. Do you wish to see the surgeon or the chaplain?”

“No, no, no, cappen; one’s bad as t’ other. The chaplain’ll pray and the doctor’ll fill me up wi’ bromide, and it just makes me crazy, sir. I’m all right, cappen, if I only had a drink. Just give me a drink, cappen,–the doctor won’t,–and send me down to my station, sir. I know it’s only in my head, but I see ’em plain, all round. You’ll give me a drink, cappen, please; I know you’ll give me a drink.”

He brushed his knees gingerly, and stepped suddenly away from an isolated speaking-tube. Captain Blake’s stern face softened. His mind went back to his midshipman days, to a stormy night and a heavy sea, an icy foot-rope, a fall, a plunge, and a cold, hopeless swim toward a shadowy ship hove to against the dark background, until this man’s face, young, strong, and cheery then, appeared behind a white life-buoy; and he heard again the panting voice of his rescuer: “Here ye are, Mr. Blake; boat’s comin’.”

He whistled down the speaking-tube, and when answered, called: “Send an opened bottle of whisky into the conning-tower–no glasses.”

“Thankee, sir.”

The captain resumed his position at the peep-hole, and Finnegan busied himself with his troubles until a Japanese servant appeared with a quart bottle. The captain received it, and the Jap withdrew.

“Help yourself, Finnegan,” said the captain, extending the bottle; “take a good drink–a last one.” Finnegan took the equivalent of three. “Now, up with you.” The captain stood the bottle under the binnacle. “Upper top. Report to Mr. Bates.”

“Cappen, please send me down to the turret where I b’long, sir. I’m all right now. I don’t want to go up there wi’ the sogers. I’m not good at machine-guns.”

“No arguments. Up with you at once. You are good for nothing but to work a lever under the eye of an officer.”

Finnegan saluted silently and turned toward the stairs.

“Finnegan!”

He turned. The captain extended his hand. “Finnegan,” he said, “I don’t forget that night, but you must go; the eternal fitness of things demands it. Perhaps I’ll go, too. Good-by.”

The two extremes of the ship’s company shook hands, and Finnegan ascended. When past the quartermasters and out of hearing, he grumbled and whined: “No good, hey? Thirty years in the service, and sent up here to think of my sins like a sick monkey. Good for nothin’ but to turn a crank with the sogers. Nice job for an able seaman. What’s the blasted service a-comin’ to?”

The two fleets were approaching in similar formation, double column, at about a twelve-knot speed. Leading the left column was the Lancaster, and following came the Argyll, Beaufort, and Atholl, the last two, like the Lancaster, armored cruisers of the first class. On the Lancaster’s starboard bow was the flag-ship Cumberland, a large unarmored cruiser, and after her came the Marlborough, Montrose, and Sutherland, unarmored craft like the flag-ship, equally vulnerable to fire, the two columns making a zigzag line, with the heaviest ships to the left, nearest the enemy.

Heading as they were, the fleets would pass about a mile apart. Led by a black, high-sided monster, the left column of the enemy was made up of four battle-ships of uncouth, foreign design and murderous appearance, while the right column contained the flag-ship and three others, all heavily armored cruisers. Flanking each fleet, far to the rear, were torpedo-boats and destroyers.

“We’re outclassed, Dalrymple,” said Captain Blake. “There are the ships we expected–Warsaw, Riga, Kharkov, and Moscow, all of fighting weight, and the Obdorsk, Tobolsk, Saratov, and Orenburg. Leaving out the Argyll, we haven’t a ship equal to the weakest one there. This fight is the Argyll’s.”