for a brief instant the danger and suddenness of the catastrophe were hardly realized. assembled for a pageant the passengers were horrified into silence by the unexpected turn of events. then a woman shrieked, and the spell was broken. almost every one of the occupants of the deck-chairs stood up and rushed to the side, shouting as if noise would help the two men struggling for their lives.
the lascars too seemed incapable of action. they flocked to the side of the ship, and gazed seemingly without emotion into the deep-blue water.
at the shout of "man overboard!" raised by anstey, the officer of the watch, captain bullock unceremoniously dashed between the groups of bewildered passengers and gained the bridge. even in his haste his brain was solving a ready problem. who was to go away in the lifeboat? the acting chief was struggling for dear life in the "ditch". he could swim well, as the old man knew, but after his strenuous wrestling bout had he sufficient strength to keep afloat until picked up? anstey, as officer on duty, could not leave the bridge. there was one executive officer short of the ship's complement, and as far as captain bullock was aware, none of the engineers off duty was capable of managing a boat, while a bungler at the tiller meant not only delay but probably failure.
fortunately the secuni in the wheelhouse had acted promptly, putting the helm over to port in order to swing the ship's stern clear of the men in the ditch, and thus avoid the danger of their being cut to pieces by the propeller. they were now a good four hundred yards astern, while between them and the ship was a line of lifebuoys thrown with fine indiscrimination by the passengers. the nearest lifebuoy to the two exhausted men was at least a hundred yards away.
during the interrupted revels the west barbican had reduced speed, and already anstey had rung down for "stop".
"let go the lifeboat—away lifeboat's crew," bawled the old man, as he moved the telegraph indicator to full speed astern; then, leaning over the bridge rails, he hailed a grotesquely garbed figure standing motionless and alert on the temporary dais:
"mr. mostyn: take charge of the lifeboat."
with a feeling of elation peter rushed to carry out the order. this time there was no question of it. the old man had spoken. it was a tribute to the wireless officer's capabilities in a province that was not strictly his own.
urged by the shrill cries of the serang and tindal of the watch the lascars had now formed up on the boat-deck. some had then their places in the out-swung boat, while others stood by the falls ready to lower away.
although the engines had been going full speed astern the west barbican was still forging ahead when peter jumped into the stern-sheets of the lifeboat. she was still carrying way when the falls were disengaged and the boat pushed off from the ship's side.
"soft job this," soliloquized mostyn. "the sea's calm, the water's warm, and old preston and the other fellow have got hold of the lifebuoy. tumbling into the ditch under these conditions is a picnic—hello, though—is it?"
*****
to say the least of it, preston was both surprised and indignant when he found himself hurtling through space in the vice-like grip of his antagonist. it was poor consolation to know that there was someone else in the same predicament. what was particularly galling was the fact that he, a veteran officer of the mercantile marine, should be such an ass as to skylark and then fall overboard in so doing.
these thoughts flashed through his mind during the time he dropped through thirty odd feet of space between the deck of the ship and the surface of the water. then the terrific impact with the atlantic ocean abruptly ended his reveries of self-reproach.
to a certain extent it was fortunate that the two men remained interlocked during their fall. hunched up after the manner of a diver doing a "honey-pot" from a spring-board they got off comparatively lightly, although the impact was fairly severe, and had the effect of depriving them of most of the scanty breath left after their strenuous encounter.
"the blighter will grip like grim death," thought preston, as he sank fathoms down; "i'll have a deuce of a job to shake him off."
but the sudden immersion had the unexpected result that the men mutually released their grip. perhaps it was that both were good swimmers and realized that the quickest way to refill their lungs with air was to strike out for the surface.
they emerged almost simultaneously, gasping and spluttering.
"not that way!" exclaimed preston breathlessly, as his companion in misfortune began striking out for the ship's side. "mind the prop."
the other realized the danger of being caught by the swiftly moving blades of the screw, but even then it was only the prompt action of the secuni at the wheel that saved him from being drawn into the vortex.
"nothing to worry about," spluttered preston, as the two bobbed like corks in the quartering wave. "we'll be picked up all right. my aunt! look at them! well, they might have chucked them on our heads."
he referred to the injudicious volley of lifebuoys. although the ship was carrying way the passengers were still engaged in dumping the company's property into the sea.
his companion laughed. regaining his breath he was also regaining his boisterous spirits, although he had to admit that the struggle, followed by a thirty-odd foot fall had severely taxed his splendid brawn and muscle.
"you don't look in your element, preston," he remarked, "even though you are father neptune."
"was," corrected the absentee acting chief officer, proceeding to relieve himself of the encumbrance of his scanty garb of trailing seaweed and oyster-shells. "come on; we may as well strike out for the nearest of that line of lifebuoys. breast stroke. there's no great hurry, and it's less tiring."
although the passenger had gone overboard wearing boxing-gloves, that had remained on his hands despite his wrestling bout, one had disappeared during his submergence. preston remarked on it.
"yes," rejoined the other. "might just as well hang on to this one, although one's not much use. cost me a couple of bradbury's just before we left england. i say, do you mind telling me this: i declare i've crossed the line without being initiated. is that so?"
"it is," replied preston feelingly. "if you'd gone through the thing tamely we wouldn't have been in the ditch. why did you ask me?"
by this time both men had swum to the nearest of the far-flung line of lifebuoys, and, glad of the support, were hanging on lightly at opposite sides of the buoyant "kisbie".
"'cause i want corroboration. last night murgatroyd bet me a tenner i wouldn't escape it. have i won?"
"you have."
"right-o, preston!" was the delighted response. "i'll stand you a dinner in the swankiest hotel in adderley street as soon as we arrive at cape town. that's a deal. hello! they're lowering a boat. what are you looking at?"
the acting chief officer had seen the boat being swung out, and was calculating how long it would take to reach the spot where the lifebuoy was—calculating whether the boat's crew would find only an unoccupied lifebuoy floating in a patch of blood-stained sea—for less than fifty yards away was the black, triangular dorsal fin of an enormous shark.
"nothing much," replied preston, as calmly as he could, although the strained expression of his eyes was sufficient to attract his companion's curiosity. "kick as hard as you jolly well can. make a splash."
"shark, eh?" exclaimed the co-partner of the life-buoy. "right-o! i'm having my money's worth this trip anyway."
"splash, man, splash!" was preston's only rejoinder.
*****
"by jove, i guess i look a sketch," thought mostyn, as he steered the lifeboat towards the two men clinging to the buoy.
he certainly did. called away hurriedly, he still wore part of his disguise as amphitrite, neptune's queen. he had cast off his flowing locks of tow, but his well-powdered face and a vivid patch of rouge on either cheek looked absolutely grotesque. his costume of muslin (lent by one of the lady passengers) had suffered horribly during his attempt to squeeze through the hatch, while the trimmings of seashells and seaweed added to the weird appearance of the young wireless officer. to facilitate his movements peter had "gathered in the slack" of his trailing garments, since without assistance he could not tackle the numerous safety-pins that his dresser had used in order to make sure that "nothing would come adrift and carry away".
"hello, though—is it!" he reiterated, shading his eyes with his left hand.
right in the glare reflected in the water his keen eyes had spotted a tell-tale swirl. then above the surface appeared an object that settled his doubts. it was the dorsal fin of a shark.
one of the lascars, looking over his shoulder, saw the danger too. he raised a shrill cry that had the effect of startling his fellow-oarsmen and putting them off their stroke.
"chup rao!" (shut up), shouted peter sternly. "pull like blue blazes."
"blue blazes" was evidently a stranger to the lascars' vocabulary, but they understood the word "pull" and guessed the significance of the rest.
redoubling their efforts, they made the heavy boat travel rapidly through the calm water; but peter realized that if the shark attacked with any promptitude the rescuers would be too late. he saw that preston and his companion in distress were doing the best thing they could in the circumstances—making a violent splash. whether the shark would be scared away was a matter for speculation.
evidently the tiger of the deep was hungry. he was not devoid of pluck, for he had begun to swim round and round the two men, the while drawing nearer to the buoy. at any moment he might make a dart straight for his victims.
peter knew this. he had seen a shark seize a south sea islander from a crowd of natives splashing and shouting in the surf. he had seen another monster seize and devour a dog within ten yards of a boat putting off to the animal's rescue.
there was no rifle in the lifeboat. in the royal navy they do things differently from the mercantile marine. peter had an automatic. it was one of the things he took good care to provide himself with after his experiences in s.s. donibristle; but the weapon was locked up in his cabin, and in the present circumstances it was like the dutchman's anchor.
the boat was now a hundred yards from the life-buoy—the shark ten. the brute was still circling, sometimes diving, sometimes showing its head; but up to the present it had shown no sign of preparing to seize its prey by turning on its back.
a sudden inspiration flashed across mostyn's mind. in the stern-sheets of the lifeboat was a box containing amongst other things a verey's pistol. it was a weapon not of offence but for humane purposes. it was fired by means of a cartridge, but, instead of a bullet, it sent up a vivid coloured light to a height of about two hundred feet.
peter stooped and opened the lid of the box. thank heaven! the pistol and cartridges were there. deftly he opened the breech and thrust home the cardboard cylinder containing the detonator and explosive light; then, standing on the stern bench and steadying the tiller with one foot, he levelled the short-barrelled weapon.
for some seconds he waited. the shark in its orbit was immediately between the lifebuoy and the boat. preston and his companion were in as much danger from the pistol as they were from the shark.
the huge fish dived and soon reappeared, this time well to the left of the buoy. it had partly turned on its back, and its wide-open jaws, triple lines of pointed teeth, and greenish-white belly were clearly visible, for by this time the whaler was less than twenty-five yards away.
it was now or never. the shark was preparing to make a dash for its victims under the bows of the boat.
deliberately peter pressed the trigger. he had to guess for elevation, knowing nothing of the trajectory of the missile. his aim was good. the rocket must have disappeared down the capacious maw of the shark, for there was no sign of the fiercely burning rocket sizzling on the surface. the satisfactory part of the business was that the shark disappeared and was seen no more.
quickly the two men were hauled into the boat, both bordering on a state of collapse. then, ordering the lascars to give way, mostyn steered for the west barbican, picking up the jettisoned lifebuoys on the way. he was one who always finished a job properly.
