For the next ten minutes perfect silence reigned in the boats; for the helmsmen were intently watching their compasses, while the others were straining their eyes through the darkness in the hope of catching the glimmer of light from the Flying Fish’s saloon ports; and, more than once, one or another of them opened his lips to cry out that he saw them, only to realise, the next instant, that he had been deceived by the phosphorescent gleam of the head of a breaking sea.
At length, however, Lethbridge broke the tense silence with the joyous cry of—
“Light ho! right ahead,” at the same instant that Sir Reginald cried out—
“I see her! there she is, straight ahead of us. Good shot, skipper!”
Yes; there she was, undoubtedly. When the boats topped a sea they could just make out the four lights shining from the dining-saloon ports; and another, somewhat farther forward, that was doubtless the light of Ida’s cabin. Sir Reginald seized his telephone, and rang up his wife to encourage her with the news that the boats were
close at hand, and ten minutes later they dashed alongside.
The ship was lying broadside-on to the wind and sea, rising and falling easily over the fast gathering swell, but scarcely rolling at all. Her hull thus afforded a capital lee for the boats. Mildmay’s boat was the first to reach the foot of the gangway-ladder; and up it Sir Reginald sprang at a single bound, as it seemed, closely followed by Lethbridge.
“Take care how you go, Elphinstone,” called the Colonel. “Remember that the fellow has a revolver.”
“Never fear,” answered the baronet. “I will look after myself.”