The door of his cabin opened noiselessly, and Raeburn entered.
"Here, this won't do, old fellow!" exclaimed the assistant engineer. "You toddle off back to your bunk again. Pills will be on your collar if you don't."
"What silly idiot made the doctor look me up?" asked Terence.
"Don't call yourself ugly names," protested Raeburn laughingly. "Since you chose to have a cold bath and stay there till your nose was as blue as a dungaree suit, and you looked liked a favourite for the Triple Pneumonia Stakes, it isn't to be wondered at that Pills had to have a chip in. But honestly, old man, you turn in, or it will be a case for the sick bay. By Jove, you did a rattling plucky thing!"
Terence abruptly silenced his chum.
"Rot!" he exclaimed. "I spoilt my only great-coat. If I'm to be crocked every time I do a little job like that, the sooner I chuck the Service the better. I'm off."
Ignoring Raeburn's threats to call the surgeon, Terence hurried from his cabin, and having borrowed a pilot coat, donned his oilskins over the borrowed garment and went on deck.
It was a weird sight which met his gaze.
The "Strongbow" was in the grip of a North Sea blizzard. Her tapering masts, funnels, ventilators, even shrouds and ropes, were outlined in glistening snow. Owing to the extreme danger of men being overthrown by the slippery state of the frozen snow underfoot, men were busily engaged in sweeping the decks—an apparently interminable task, as the flakes fell quickly and heavily.
Unnoticed Aubyn gained the foot of the bridge-ladder. The ascent caused him considerable effort. In spite of his natural activity the prospect of a "trick" on the exposed bridge in that awful weather damped his enthusiasm. Mr. Lymore was on duty. His back was turned towards the sub. Before Terence could report himself the door of the chart room was opened and Captain Ripponden appeared.