To reach her objective, the skylight over the engine-room, she would have to traverse the open space as far as the deck-house, when the latter would furnish some sort of cover; but the real danger would be after she had passed under the bridge into the after-part of the vessel. The eyes of the mate, who was watching the destroyer, were naturally turned in that direction. The only compensation was that the skylight was close to the bridge, and that she would not be long in the perilous zone of Cheeseman's vision before attempting her self-set task. Anyhow, the danger had to be faced, and, timing her start so that the mate should be at the opposite end of the bridge from the side of the ship she selected for her rush, Nettle seized the bucket and raced for the shelter of the deck-house. She reached it without, so far as she knew, being observed, and so came to the alley under the bridge, where she waited till the lighter sound of Cheeseman's heavy steps overhead told that he had again receded from the side where she meant to operate. [Illustration: "Looking up, she caught the furious eye of Cheeseman glaring at her along the blue barrel of his still levelled pistol."] Then, with a queer little sob of expectancy, she darted forward to the glazed cupola and raised the bucket shoulder high over the open slide. As she stood there, her splendid young figure posed like a Greek goddess, a hoarse oath was yelled from the bridge, followed instantly by the simultaneous crack of a revolver and the ping of a bullet on the bucket. The missile glanced off and seared the bloom on the girl's cheek. Looking up, she caught the furious eye of Cheeseman glaring at her along the blue barrel of his still levelled pistol. She smiled up at him, and before he could fire again she dumped the contents of the bucket into the whirling tangle of machinery below. CHAPTER XXX AFTERMATH OF STORM The cinders fell with a clatter among the pistons and the fly-wheels, and Nettle Jimpson, too absorbed in watching results, forgot to notice that the ruffian on the bridge had not fired a second shot at her. For almost immediately there began a jarring and a scrunching in the engines which told that the delicate mechanism was trying to assimilate in its vitals the rough food she had fed it with, and found it indigestible. Cold-blooded murder was quite in Mr. Cheeseman's line as a preventive, equally so as a cure had that been possible. But those ominous sounds were eloquent of mischief done, and he was not the man to run his neck into a noose for the empty pleasure of revenge. Three feeble revolutions followed, and then the engines stopped altogether, and the _Cobra_, quickly exhausting the way on her, lay like a log on the oily swell. Brant came running from his cabin, and at the foot of the bridge stairs met Cheeseman, who had descended, and the chief engineer, who had hurried up from below.