Presently Mr. Chapman came up on deck, sweating all over. "She’s doing as many revolutions as she did on her trials," he shouted; "her engines won’t take any more steam, I’m only blowing it off," and he pointed to clouds of steam hissing away from each funnel. "Make a signal, ’I wish to communicate and send a boat’, and keep it flying," roared Mr. Parker to the signalman, who was evidently prepared, for he had already bent the proper flags and pendants to the halyards and quickly hoisted them, the bunting stiffening in the wind like painted steel. I forgot to say that the Chinese ensign, the Yellow Dragon, was flying at our stern. How we did wish it was our own white ensign. We all watched for a reply, but none came. There was no doubt we were now gaining—we could plainly make out a few men on her bridge looking at us from time to time—and judging from the great masses of smoke which were pouring from her funnels, the stokers must have been working desperately hard to escape from us. "We’re well out of the three-mile limit, I think, Collins?" shouted Mr. Parker. "Yes, sir—ten miles away." "Then try a shot at twelve hundred yards, Jones (the ’No. 1’ of the 12-pounder). Go as close to her as you can without hitting her." "Very good, sir." And Jones, a huge muscular man pressed his shoulder against the mounting and bent over the sights. How we did throb and pitch—the muzzle of the gun never seemed still, and it seemed ages before Jones fired. There was a beastly sharp crack, the cordite smoke drove back into our eyes, and we all strained to see the result. The shell burst half a mile ahead of the Patagonian as it struck the water. "No one can shoot from a platform like this," Collins said angrily; "we’re dancing about like a lot of marionettes." Jones fired another shot, which burst astern, but not the slightest effect had either—still no answer to our signal, and no attempt to lessen speed. Just then Mr. Chapman reported that he only had two more tons left, and had swept every bunker. Mr. Parker groaned, "She’ll get away, and I can’t even get back to Colombo. Carry on firing as fast as you can, Collins, with your two for’ard 6-pounders." Then we heard, below us, the joyful voice of the Gunner singing out, "Target, right ahead, at one thousand—independent firing—commence."