Both stared at the object which, being much larger and higher out of the water, bore down upon them quickly. There was no doubt now that it was a portion of a ship, perhaps of the wrecked Columbine, and in the hope that it was, Phil and his friend dipped their hands in the water and slowly propelled themselves so as to lie in its path.
“I can see something red on it,” said Phil, shading his eyes. “Can you make anything out, Tony?”
“There’s a chap there in red breeches, or I’m an idiot, Phil. Yes, I can see him plainly. He’s tied to the wreckage, and as far as I make out there isn’t a move in him. Tell yer what, old man, that would be a safer place than these here gratings, and I advise that we swop.”
When the floating mass reached them, Phil and Tony sprang on to it, securing their gratings to it, and casting off the ropes with which they had fastened themselves. Lashed to a ring-bolt was a little, red-breeched French linesman, apparently dead.
Phil cut his lashings free, and turning him on to his back, tore his coat open. “Not dead yet,” he cried eagerly. “Lend a hand here, Tony. We’ll pull this fellow round. He is as cold as ice, so we’ll take his shirt off and rub his chest and arms. That ought to restore the circulation.”
Setting to work with a will they tore the clothing from the unconscious Frenchman, and chafed his body and limbs with such energy that soon there were obvious signs of returning consciousness, and moreover their exertions had made both of them thoroughly warm, whereas before they had been numbed with cold.
Suddenly their ally opened his eyes and stared round wildly.
“Mon Dieu!” he groaned, and seemed to relapse into unconsciousness. Once more opening his eyes he stared at Phil, and, recognising him as an English officer, stretched out his hand, while a look of relief and gladness overspread his face.
“Mon cher, mon cher!” he cried joyfully. “Ah, zis is ze grand plaisir. Ah!”