The roar of voices on either side of the course surged in their ears like the sound of a waterfall. Astern of them was the picket-boat, a graceful feather of spray falling away on either side of the stem-piece. A concourse of Wardroom and Gunroom officers had crowded into her bows, and the Commander, purple with emotion, bellowed incoherencies through a megaphone.
Then, with one keen glance at the Flagship's crew and one at the rapidly approaching finishing line, the Young Doctor chose the psychological moment.
"Stand by!" he croaked. "Now, all together—spurt!"
His crew responded with the last ounce of energy in their exhausted frames. They were blind, deaf and dumb, straining, gasping, forcing "heart and nerve and sinew" to drive the leaden boat through those last few yards. Suddenly, far above their heads, rang out the crack of a rifle, and the next instant another. The crew collapsed as if shot.
For a moment none was capable of speech. Then the First Lieutenant raised his head from his hands.
"Which is it," he asked, "us or them?"
The Young Doctor was staring up at the masthead of the Flagship. A tangle of flags appeared above the bridge-screen.
"I can't read 'em," he said. "Which is it? Translate, someone, for pity's sake."
The crew of the Flagship's boat, lying abreast of them a few yards away, answered the question. They turned towards their late adversaries and began clapping. The next moment the Dockyard tug burst into a triumphant frenzy, and the picket-boat, full of cheering, clapping mess-mates, slid alongside to take the painter.
The First Lieutenant stretched out a large, blistered hand. "Shake,
Pills," he said.