“No, sir.”
“Then how do you know—”
“I know an American man-o’-war’s crew, sir. They wouldn’t be doing anything else. All we have to do, sir, is to keep her afloat. I’ll stake my soul on that, sir.”
And then Dave did see a boat come into view, and heard the sturdy splash of oars—heard the coxwain’s brisk orders.
So weak was Dave that he almost wished to clasp Belle to him that they might sink together and be at rest. To take her from the water only to lay her in a grave on shore—what did it really matter after all? And for himself—what?
“Stand by, bowman there!” rapped out the coxwain’s voice, as the small boat shot along under rapid headway. “The boat-hook! The woman first!”
Deftly the hook was caught in Belle’s soaked garments.
“And now the skipper!” called Runkle, who had transferred his support to Dave Darrin. “As for me, stand clear! I’ll pull myself aboard.”
Other boats came out from the destroyer. These, with the numerous boats from the sunken liner and a number of rafts that dotted the water, all had to be collected. The “Grigsby’s” whistle broke hoarsely on the air, calling them in.
The boat that carried Darrin and Belle was the first to reach the destroyer. Dave bore his wife up over the side.