"Get your staves, lads," ordered the patrol-leader. "Form a stretcher. We'll carry him as far as the cart."
"Strikes me I hear engines," declared the coastguardsman. "There, what's that?"
A dull, rasping sound and the splash of disturbed water broke the silence. A moment later the night breeze carried the unmistakable noise of a vessel's engines running at full speed ahead.
The petty officer was quick to act. Raising his hands to his mouth he shouted in stentorian tones:
"Ship ahoy! Go full speed astern instantly. You're heading straight for Black Ghyll."
The clang of the engine-room telegraph bell followed quickly, to the accompaniment of short, crisp orders and the trample of boots upon a metal deck.
It was already too late. With a rending crash the vessel, whatever she might be, ran bows on to the jagged rocks.
"That's done it! Her number's up," exclaimed the petty officer. "Now, lads, four of you come with me. There's work to be done there, I reckon. The others stay with this gentleman and guard the prisoner till we return."
"Look here," said the captive in well-nigh breathless expostulation. "You've made a rotten mistake. Spoilt everything."
Peter felt his heart give a furious beat. Regardless of regulations he bent over the prostrate prisoner and struck a match.