“I’m afraid we must recall the boats, Mr Reardon.”
“Yes, sir,” said the lieutenant in a husky voice. “I don’t think any one is to blame about the attempt to save the poor fellow, sir. The life-buoy was let go, and the boat lowered promptly; the dishipline of the men was good.”
“Excellent, Mr Reardon. I have nothing to say there. It would have been better perhaps to have lowered down the second boat sooner. But I think we have done our best. Can you make them hear from this distance?”
“Yes, I think so; a voice will travel far over the smooth water on a still night like this. Shall I recall them?”
Captain Thwaites was silent for a full minute, and we all stood gazing aft at the faint stars on the black water, while to right and left were those that were more dim and distant, being the paper lanterns of the house-boats moored a short distance from the bank.
Then the captain spoke again, and his words re-illumined the parting light of hope which flashed up like an expiring flame.
“Do you think he has struck out straight for the shore?”
“He may have done so, sir,” replied Mr Reardon, as we all stood in a knot together on the quarter-deck, “but he could never have reached it.”
“Not in this mill-race of a tide!” said Captain Thwaites. “Recall the boats.”
But Mr Reardon made no sign. He stood there gazing through the night-glass for some moments, and the captain spoke again.