"Someone calling, sir," reported the operator. "Calling with an apparatus of low power. I can't quite tap the message, though it has been getting stronger."
"Then we're moving towards it; we'll send her ahead. Wonder what it is?" said Joe. "There are few wireless instruments in this part of the world, and those there are belong to the British forces. Report again when you can read the message."
At once the ship was sent ahead at her fastest pace, while the wireless operator returned to his instruments. Nor was it long when he appeared with a report.
"A force of Gurkha soldiers held up in the hills, sir," he told Joe. "Calling for help, but not yet in touch with the instruments of their main party. Urgently require relief. Ammunition almost run out. I told them to expect us."
"Certainly!" cried Joe. "We'll do our utmost to relieve them. Major, kindly see that arms are served to the men. Sergeant Evans has the keys of the magazines."
"But—you will never venture to attack whoever is hemming in these British soldiers," cried Mr. Reitberg, aghast.
"Then you'd let 'em be shot down, eh?" asked Andrew angrily.
"Er—well, how can we help it? It is their own business. Why should we rush into danger?"
The magnate was positively shaking. He could scarcely stand, so violently were his knees knocking. As for Joe, he turned on his heel and went straightway to the engine-room, while the Major hurried off to issue weapons to the men. Andrew regarded his guest grimly, and with difficulty smothered his rising anger.
"Sir," he said with dignity, "those men are British soldiers. This ship is British also. If there is a call for help we take it, whatever the risk. Remember that you yourself owe to our country a debt which a service such as this is will only partially help you to repay. There, sir, if you are nervous retire to your cabin."