“Better head on a southwest course,” stated Ned, briefly glancing up from his work over Mackinder’s leg.
“I can do that all right,” responded Jimmie. “The gunboat and the submarine can fight it out alone.”
“We’ve got a clear field, Jimmie, so shove the little wagon along for all she’s worth,” put in Jack.
Mackinder had been exercising wonderful command of himself, but in spite of his best efforts a groan now and again escaped. The injured leg was proving a painful matter.
“We’ll do all we can for you, Mackinder,” Ned offered, “but we need better skill than is available here. Would it not be best to make at once for some port where we can secure the services of a surgeon?”
Mackinder’s only reply was a nod. His teeth were closed tightly to suppress the cry of anguish from his hurt.
“Keep on the surface, boys,” urged Ned as he went about making the man comfortable with such simple means as were at hand. “I believe we are not far from the coast.”
Surrendering the wheel to Frank, and with Jack at the engines, Jimmie insisted upon mounting to the deck again to look about them.
Cool and sweet the air gushed down the little open hatchway upon the injured man. Under its influence and aided by the ministrations of Ned, the proprietor of the third “U-13” rapidly gained control of himself.
“Head west southwest,” he instructed Ned. “We’ll be mighty apt to find the mouth of the Thames on that course. There are many places I’d rather go, but you are right—we must have a surgeon!”