acting chief officer dick preston, on receiving the old man's order to get the boats away, lost no time in getting to the scene of operations. the frantic rush of the lascars to the boat-deck warned him of what to expect. he had seen the panic-stricken clamour of a crew of white-livered dagoes, had watched them tumble pell-mell into the sole remaining boat, and had witnessed the result—a swamped whaler and twenty men struggling for dear life, and struggling in vain in the icy cold water off the newfoundland banks. that was many years ago, but the lesson had not been lost on dick preston.

hurriedly loading his revolver, the acting chief gained the boat-deck. already the native crew had swung out one of the boats, and a fierce struggle was in progress between the lascars and the firemen as to who should go away in her.

there was no love lost between the two classes. they were of different races, the lascars hailing from bombay while the firemen were recruited from the coromandel coast; they were of different faith, the former being mahommedans, the latter buddhists. it needed little to cause a row. when it came to a struggle for life the natives were in a state bordering upon madness.

"chup rao!" shouted preston, levelling his revolver. "belay there! stand fast!"

for a moment the lascars and firemen hesitated. then, as the ship shook and staggered as the bulkhead of no. 2 hold gave way, they surged in a living torrent into the out-swung boat, regardless of the revolver shots which the acting chief fired over their heads.

preston made no further attempt to restore order on the boat-deck. if the men disobeyed orders he was no longer responsible for their safety.

he passed along until he came to a knot of comparatively amenable madrasis, who had been gathered together by anstey and two of the engineers.

"right-o, old man!" exclaimed the acting chief to the third officer. "lower away! you take command, and good luck to you."

quickly, yet with good discipline, the boat was manned and lowered—anstey, the two engineers, and mr. shallop in the stern-sheets.

"keep in company, mr. anstey," shouted preston, as the falls swung free.

"ay, ay, sir," was the reply, followed by the order: "give way."

anstey's boat was barely clear of the side when the first boat to be swung out was let go with a run. greatly overcrowded, it struck the water with tremendous force. the impact broke her back, and in a moment she filled, leaving the frantic natives floundering in the water. some were crushed as the sea flung the waterlogged craft against the ship's side. others strove to clamber into the boat, only to destroy her slight buoyancy. in the mêlée knives were used with deadly effect, until only half a dozen men, who had swum clear of the boat, were left out of the thirty odd who had crowded into her.

it had been both preston's and anstey's plan to get the women away first; but each had quickly realized that this was out of the question. for one thing, neither mrs. shallop nor olive was on the boat-deck. for another, it was useless to attempt to place them in the boats until the panic-stricken mob was effectively dealt with.

two more boats, each under the charge of an engineer, and with three or four stewards, got away with difficulty. the crowd on the boat-deck had thinned considerably.

"now, then, where are the women?" demanded preston. he was not altogether certain whether they had already got away, for, save for the less frequent flashes of lightning, the scene was in total darkness.

"here you are, preston!" shouted a voice that the acting chief recognized as the purser's.

a bluish glare, a prolonged flash, enabled preston to see the missing passengers. the purser was literally dragging mrs. shallop along the deck, while olive was close behind.

for once mrs. shallop was silent. she was unconscious.

"i wondered why she wasn't complaining that she was not being treated as a lady," thought preston grimly. "that accounts for it."

together, the acting chief and the purser unceremoniously bundled the insensible woman into the last boat but one on the port side. those on the starboard were useless, for, owing to the excessive heel, they could not be lowered clear of the sloping side.

"now, miss baird."

guided by preston the girl entered the boat, in which were three lascars—one of them mahmed, peter's boy.

"where's mostyn?" shouted the acting chief. "partridge! plover! hurry up, now!"

he called in vain. the two watchers had already got clear of the ship. mostyn was still vainly endeavouring to get the sos message through.

meanwhile the purser, the chief steward, and the remaining natives had lowered the last available boat. preston was left alone on the boat-deck—a fact that was revealed to him when the next lightning-flash rent the sky.

"where's the captain?" he shouted, hailing the boats lying a short distance away. "anyone seen captain bullock?"

by this time the water was washing over the well-deck. at any moment the west barbican might turn turtle.

a voice from one of the boats replied:

"here!"

"what's that?" bawled preston.

"all right," answered the voice.

the acting chief was puzzled. it was not the old man's voice, but perhaps captain bullock had been injured. he had not seen the skipper since he left him on the bridge. apparently the bridge was deserted. it looked untenable owing to the great list of the ship.

a muffled explosion, as yet another bulkhead gave way under the pressure of water, warned preston that it was time for him to go. it was his duty to take charge of the boat in which were the two women passengers.

leaping into the boat, preston signed to mahmed to help him with the after falls, at the same time shouting to the other two lascars to lower away handsomely.

although there was no one on deck to man the falls, it was a fairly easy matter to lower away the comparatively light boat with only six persons on board, the distance from the davit-heads to the water being only about ten feet, so deep had the ship settled.

"fend off!" ordered preston, as he jerked the lever of the patent disengaging gear.

even as he spoke the heavy metal block of the lower after falls swung violently outwards. in the darkness the acting chief did not see the impending danger.

the next instant the swaying lump of metal struck preston full on the temple. without a groan or a cry he pitched headlong upon the stern-sheet gratings.

it was mahmed who discovered the apparently lifeless form of the chief officer. he communicated his discovery to his compatriots, and an excited conversation ensued. meanwhile the boat was drifting aimlessly at less than ten yards from the west barbican's port quarter. until it occurred to the lascars—who were arguing on a question of precedence as to who should now give orders—that there was imminent danger of the boat being swamped by the suction of the foundering ship, they made no effort to man the oars.

when about a hundred yards from the ship the lascars ceased rowing and resumed their argument.

all this time olive had done what lay in her power to render mrs. shallop's plight less painful. she was in utter ignorance of the accident that had befallen the luckless acting chief officer, although she was rather puzzled at the lack of discipline displayed by the lascars, and the fact that the officer in charge of the boat made no attempt to check the dispute.

another vivid sheet of lightning illumined the scene, but olive was not looking into the boat. her attention was attracted by the sight of two men standing on the listing bridge of the ill-fated west barbican.

the glare was of sufficient duration to enable her to distinguish captain bullock and mostyn. she saw the former raise his hand and beckon the boat to pull clear. he was shouting something, but in the turmoil the words were indistinguishable.

the long-drawn lightning flash ended, leaving the girl blinking in stygian darkness.

"there's captain bullock and mostyn still on board, mr. preston," she exclaimed, in anxious tones. "can't we put back to fetch them?"

there was no reply.

in a louder tone olive repeated the question of entreaty.

still there was no answer.

the lascar bowman resumed his oar, pulling the boat's head round. finding his companion idle he prodded him in the back with his foot, with the result that the man gave a few desultory strokes. in the utter darkness the lascars had lost all sense of direction, and, instead of pulling away from the ship, they were slightly closing with her.

suddenly a hissing sound rent the air. it was the ship plunging beneath the waves. the boat, caught by the turmoil of the tempestuous seas, was thrown about like a cork. one of the men was hurled off the thwart by the loom of his oar striking him in the face. the oar was swept from his grasp and lost overboard.

to olive, crouching on the bottom-boards, it seemed as if the boat were being lifted vertically. the movement reminded her of the sudden and unexpected starting of a lift. then, heeling terribly, the boat dipped her gunwale under, and a cascade poured into her until olive was sitting waist deep in water.

her first act was to raise mrs. shallop's head. the shock of the water had caused that lady partly to recover consciousness. she was moaning and coughing.

the violent motion lasted for quite a minute, then the maelstrom subsided, and the partly waterlogged boat bobbed sluggishly on the waves. the lascars, now roused to activity, were baling furiously with their hands, since in the darkness it was impossible to find the baler which was supposed to be in the boat.

"mr. preston!" exclaimed olive once more.

"preston sahib he dead man," was mahmed's startling announcement, although the words were delivered with the imperturbability of the asiatic.

the horror of the situation gripped the plucky girl. throughout the period between the explosion and the foundering of the west barbican she had been perfectly self-possessed, her chief solicitude being for her tyrannical employer. now the full magnitude of the disaster became apparent. she and the unconscious mrs. shallop were alone in the boat with three apparently incapable lascars. preston was, presumably, dead; mostyn she had seen standing on the bridge just before the ship sank, keeping up the traditions of the wireless service to remain at his post as long as the ship was afloat and the transmitting apparatus was capable of being worked.

the other boats were neither to be seen nor heard. whether they were still standing by or whether they were making for the nearest land the girl knew not.

she would have welcomed another lightning flash, out none came. the electrical storm had passed. rain was now falling heavily, and the total absence of wind was ominous. it presaged a hard blow, possibly a storm, at no distant date.

olive was thinking deeply. it was "up to her" to show the lascars that a british woman is not helpless in a tight corner.

"if only it were light," she thought.

then she remembered that the boats usually carried an emergency equipment, an oil lamp amongst other things.

"mahmed," she ordered, "get the boat's lamp from the stern-locker and light it."

she would have found it herself, but for the fact that preston's body lay on the stern-gratings. she frankly admitted to herself that nothing could induce her to grope her way past that in the darkness.

the two lascars were still baling in the bows. they too were reluctant to go aft, where, by removing the stern-sheet gratings, they could deal more effectually with the water in the bilges.

mahmed obeyed without protest. olive could hear the search in progress; first the clatter of the detached locker-cover, as it slipped upon the stern-sheets, then the rasping of a metal-bound keg, and the metallic clank of the lamp.

"no can do, memsahib," reported mahmed. "no light, no match."

"look again," commanded the girl. unless some unprincipled person had purloined them, there ought to be matches in a watertight box along with the rest of the gear in the after locker.

a further search proved futile. the boats and their gear had been inspected by the officer of the watch only that morning, and had been reported as being in good condition and fully equipped in every respect. either anstey, as inspecting officer, had shirked his whole duty or else, which to olive seemed unlikely, the matches had been stolen in broad daylight.

"see if there are matches in preston sahib's pocket," said the girl.

but mahmed drew the line at that. in his quaint english he explained, giving several reasons that seemed puerile.

"i suppose it's hardly fair to get him to do what i daren't do myself," thought the girl. then, summoning up her resolution, she leant over the stroke-thwart, and shudderingly groped for the acting chief's pockets.

to her delight she found a box of swedish matches in the breast pocket of preston's drill patrol jacket. before she could withdraw her hand the supposedly dead man moved slightly, but none the less perceptibly. that altered the situation. olive was no longer dealing with a corpse, but with a living person. instinctively she placed her hand over preston's heart. it was beating very feebly.

"here are matches, mahmed!" she exclaimed. "light the lamp quickly. preston sahib is not dead."

it seemed an interminable delay before mahmed succeeded in getting the lamp lighted. the matches were damp, the wick wanted trimming, and the colza oil was a long time before it gave out a flame.

at length the lamp was lighted, and there was quite a steady light, and the transition from utter darkness imparted confidence.

giving a hasty look at mrs. shallop, to see that she was still in the recovering stage, olive turned to the more important work in hand.

preston looked a ghastly sight. one side of his face had been badly injured, while the concussion had caused blood to ooze from his eyes, nose, and mouth.

olive's first step was to wash the injured man's face and moisten his lips with water. she had the good sense to use salt water for the washing process, knowing that the contents of the water-beaker were likely to be more precious than gold before the adventure was over. then, pillowing the patient's head on a sail and covering him with a piece of tarpaulin, she debated as to what was to be done next.

clearly preston's case required medical aid. selwyn was in one of the boats, but whether they were in company or not olive had no idea.

"hold up the lamp, mahmed," she ordered. "high up."

the boy obeyed, while olive, shading her eyes from the heavy rain, peered around in case any of the other boats might be displaying a light. it was a doubtful point. even if they had, the torrential downpour would tremendously curtail the range of visibility of the low-powered light.

in fact, held high above mahmed's head, the rays simply illuminated a circular patch of rain-threshed water, a little more than a dozen yards in radius, beyond was an impenetrable wall of darkness.

an involuntary cry came from olive baird's lips. she could hardly believe the evidence of her eyes, for floating inertly within an oar's length of the boat was a man—peter mostyn.

whether he was alive or dead olive knew not. his usually tanned features looked a ghastly greenish hue, his eyes were closed, and his head was hanging sideways. his arms were moving slightly, but the movement was purely automatic as the lifebelt-clad figure lifted to the gentle undulations of the sea.

startled by olive's cry, mahmed looked in the direction to which the girl was pointing. his fright at seeing, as he thought, the dead body of his master, was almost disastrous in its result. the upheld lamp slipped from his nerveless fingers and fell clattering upon the gunwale. for an instant it seemed uncertain whether it would drop into the sea or not, but luckily a movement of the boat slid it inboard.

but the fall had extinguished the lamp. mahmed was in too much of a blue funk to relight it. olive settled the question by taking the box of matches from him and lighting it herself.

neither of the two lascars for'ard would move a finger to row towards the wireless officer. superstition akin to panic held them in its grip. they would not—they could not—use their oars. every bit of courage seemed to have oozed out of them.

seizing one of the spare oars lying across the thwarts, olive, using the unwieldy ash paddle-wise, slowly brought the boat nearer and nearer the seemingly inanimate man. had there been any wind the task would have been almost impossible, owing to the high freeboard of the lightly laden boat; but in the absence of even a faint breeze olive was able to accomplish her aim.

with a sigh of relief she threw down the oar, and, leaning over the gunwale, grasped peter by one arm.