She swam back a little way to get a clear view of the anchor chain, and saw the same disadvantages in that line of attack as the Saint himself had envisaged. Then, being the freshest of the trio after the swim, she moved along the side to prospect for an alternative route. Thus she discovered the rope ladder which the Saint had used, and returned to inform the others of their good fortune. They followed her back—Orace was plugging doggedly on, but Algy was in great distress, and had held them back considerably in the last quarter-mile—and the girl caught the lower rungs and pulled herself out of the water.
“Half a lap more, and then we can rest,” she encouraged in a whisper, leaning down and pressing Algy’s hand. “Try to raise just an ounce more—we’ve got to move fast till we find some place to hide.”
She scaled the ladder with a nimbleness that no old salt could have bettered, and the straining of the ropes in her hands told her that the others were trailing her as actively as they could. Looking before she leapt, she saw that the only men visible were intent upon steering an instalment of their precious cargo down into the hold aft, and in a trice she had flashed over the rail and was standing in the shadow of the deckhouse. In a moment Algy’s head topped the rail, and she beckoned him to hurry. Somehow he clambered over and got across the deck to join her, though he was dazed and swaying with cold and fatigue. Orace came hard on his heels.
“How are we all?” asked Pat.
Orace was trying to rub some of the wet off his arms and legs.
“Orl right, miss—me ole woon’s painin’ a bit, but nuffin ta speak uv.”
“Algy?”
“F-f-frightfully sorry to b-be such a n-n-nuisance, old th-thing!” Algy’s teeth were chattering like castanets. “But I’ll b-b-be all right in a b-bally jiffy. I wish we could f-f-find the Tiger’s whisky!”
The girl turned to Orace.
“Will you take charge for a minute?” she said. “I don’t know enough about ships. Take us some place where we’ll be fairly safe from being spotted.”