The mooring dropped with a resounding splash. Fortescue and Malcolm manned the oars and gave way with a will.
"Jolly hard graft," muttered Malcolm breathlessly after a quarter of an hour's strenuous work. "Do you think we're getting any nearer? I don't."
Fortescue glanced over his shoulder.
"No, I don't," he admitted bluntly. "What's more, the transports are 'on the move. That's put the kybosh on the whole contraption."
CHAPTER IX
In the Ring
For a full minute silence reigned. The chums had light-heartedly discussed the possibility of the convoy sailing; but now, when the supposition merged into hard fact, they could hardly realize the gravity of the situation.
Mitigating circumstances or otherwise, reduced to rock-bottom level, the three non-coms, had overstayed their leave, and were actually deserters, from a military point of view. It was just possible that they might be sent back under arrest to New Zealand. The thought that they would be done Out of "having a slap at Fritz" almost stunned them.
"Let's get back," said Fortescue, as the grey-hulled vessels grew more and more indistinct in the starlit night. "We'll make for the transport office and report ourselves. If we hadn't taken that fellow's advice and wasted precious time looking for Van what's-his-name we might have caught the tender."