“Don’t fear us,” said my skipper. “We’re alive, that’s all we ask for. We don’t have any call or wish to talk about it. Do we, mates?” The other men shook their heads dumbly, and went slowly to their places.
“What became of your propeller?” asked Tom, coming back towards us.
“Disappeared. Your rubber valves closed the hole.”
“Then he tried to sink you.”
“Undoubtedly,” I answered. “It was your wooden boat and cage of caema which saved me.”
As we made for Folkestone, we met other boats hurrying out on the Channel. Tom had ventured out farther than any one else. One by one, they hailed us, but our captain gave them no news and made on.
“I wish I knew what to do,” I said wearily. “I can’t write this thing. I feel stunned and broken. I’m not sure what I ought to do, anyway. Any ordinary or even extraordinary thing is proper journalistic stuff, but this is too big, somehow, for individual use. Yet the one thing that ought to be done is to get the news to the world as soon as possible.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” said Dorothy hesitatingly. “Isn’t your London correspondent to be in Folkestone waiting for you?”
“Yes,” I said.