“Tie it round your middle,” shouted the lieutenant. “You’ll have to jump for it—we’ll pull you inboard all right.”
The survivor obeyed dully, reeled to the edge of his ledge and slid once more into the bitterly cold water.
Half a dozen hands seemed to grasp him simultaneously, and he was hauled over the gunwale of the boat almost before he realised he had left his ledge. A flask was crammed between his chattering teeth; someone wound fold upon fold of blanket round him.
“Any more of you, mate?” said a voice anxiously; and then, “Strike me blind if it ain’t old Bill!”
The survivor opened his eyes and saw the face of the bowman contemplating him above his cork life-belt. It was a vaguely familiar face. They had been shipmates somewhere once. Barracks, Devonport, p’raps it was. He blinked the tears out of his eyes and coughed as the raw spirit ran down his throat.
“Any more of you, Bill, ole lad?”
The survivor shook his head.
“There’s no one,” he said, “’cept me. I’m the only one what’s lef’ outer two ships’ companies.” Again the lost feeling of bewildered pride crept back.
“You always was a one, Bill!” said the bowman in the old familiar accent of hero-worship.
The survivor nodded confirmation. “Not ’arf I ain’t,” he said appreciatively. “Sole survivor I am!” And held out his hand again for the flask. “Christ! look at my ’ands!”