With that he literally carried the numbed form of his superior officer out of the partly flooded magazine, just as others of his mates were preparing to complete the task which Aubyn had successfully begun.
Of what happened during the next few hours Terence had but a hazy idea. He was dimly conscious of being placed into a hot bath, wrapped up in blankets, and being put into his bunk. There, as far as he personally was concerned, scarce troubling whether the ship went down or otherwise, he fell into the deep sleep of utter exhaustion till he was aroused by the officers' call followed by the shrill notes of the bo's'un's mates' whistles.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE RAID ON SCARBOROUGH.
"My watch, by Jove!" ejaculated Aubyn. "What in the name of goodness am I doing in my bunk at this time of the morning?"
He sprang out of bed with his customary alacrity, only to find his knees give way under him. Then it gradually dawned upon him that his last fully conscious moments were whilst he was in the flooded magazine.
"Steady, old man!" he muttered reproachfully. "This won't do. Pull yourself together."
He began to dress, rummaging for his clothes in one of the characteristically awkwardly placed drawers under his bunk. The garments he had worn the previous day had been taken away to be dried. Then he remembered the fate of his great-coat and wondered what he should do without it when on the bridge.
He glanced through the scuttle. The sea was still running high. Flakes of snow, scudding before the wind, were falling rapidly. By the motion of the water as it slipped past the ship's side he knew that the "Strongbow" was still going sternforemost.