In another half-minute we could see her with the naked eye. She was showing up dark against the white breakwater, and was tearing through the water, running almost at right angles to us till she cleared the breakwater and the rocks. We were drawing rapidly together when she put her helm over. We saw her heel over, swing round, right herself as she settled down on her proper course, and away she flew, the Patagonian flag stiffening out astern. "Follow her, Davis," sang out Mr. Parker to the petty officer at the wheel, as he tried to light his pipe behind the chart table. "Go to quarters, Collins (the Sub), and pass up ammunition." The Gunner and Mr. Collins flew down on deck to see everything prepared, leaving only Mr. Parker and myself on the bridge. He shouted down the engine-room voice tube, "How much coal have you left, Chapman?" "Nearly fourteen tons." "How long will that last at full speed?" "Rather more than an hour and a half," came the muffled reply. "Then give me every ounce of steam you can raise." At the time the Patagonian had altered course there was about one mile and a half between us, but she was rapidly gaining, for we had not yet reached our highest speed, and she was evidently doing all she knew. She was almost hidden under a great cloud of smoke, and occasionally entirely hidden by spray, for a slight choppy head sea, which we had not noticed before when going slowly, was now covering us fore and aft with spray. Down I had to go to see the boats all ready for lowering, and when this was done run several messages to the Sub, who by this time had men at all the guns, and plenty of ammunition on deck. There wasn’t much doubt that Mr. Chapman and his men were doing their utmost, for now we could feel the engines humming round like sewing machines, the ship began to throb and vibrate with a funny wriggle which you could almost see when you looked aft along the deck from the bridge. It was just as much as I could do to hang on to the bridge rails with one hand and keep my cap on with the other, whilst the spray wetted us from head to foot. The 12-pounder’s gun crew had come up to the bridge and fondly cleared her away and loaded her. Then I felt that funny sensation in my stomach again, the sardines and the wobbling I expect it was, and hung on to the bridge and gasped for breath between the showers of spray. You should have seen our funnels! What paint was left on them came off just like the skin of scarlet fever people when they peel, great roaring flames licked out of them, and clouds of smoke went rushing aft, whilst astern was a huge mass of churned-up foam, looking as if it would fall on board. We must have been chasing her for nearly half an hour, and did not appear to be gaining. Mr. Parker kept on anxiously looking at his watch as we rushed along—now leaving Colombo behind us and running away from the dark belt of trees which marked the shore.