It was only the imagination of the moment. Directly after he was swimming for it, seeing that it was the bottom of the capsized boat, about which the crew were clustering.
Then a strong hand was stretched out to him, and he was drawn to the keel, Tom Fillot, who had rowed stroke oar, helping him to a good position.
“Hold on a bit, sir, and we’ll try and right her.”
“Yes,” panted Mark. “Where’s Mr Russell?”
“Here,” came rather faintly from the other side of the boat, accompanied by a fit of gasping and coughing. “All right now; I got under the boat. All here, my lads?”
“Ay, ay, sir.”
“Then you one and all deserve a flogging,” cried the second lieutenant, angrily. “What were you about to capsize the boat?”
“Dunno, sir,” said Tom Fillot, gruffly. “She went over all of her own sen.”
“Don’t be an idiot, man.”
“Where’s the black?” panted Mark, who had not yet got back to his regular breathing.