"Those men first," cried Captain Pennington, pointing to those of his crew who were still maintaining a precarious hold.
The coxswain understood and allowed his boat to drift down upon the handful of seamen. Coolly the British crew scrambled into safety, and the whaler, urged under the powerful strokes of the oarsmen, began to make her way aft.
Suddenly the almost submerged part on which Denbigh and his companions were standing gave a sickening shudder and disappeared beneath the surface. A swirl of water, surging with irresistible force, swept the four officers off their feet.
The next instant Denbigh found himself struggling for dear life in the foaming yellow water of Mohoro River. In spite of his peril, he could not help contrasting his involuntary bath with that of the previous night. Then the water was warm, tranquil, and evil-smelling. Unseen dangers assailed him on every hand. Now the same river was nothing less than a broiling cauldron.
With almost superhuman strength Denbigh struck out. Already he was within the influence of the deadly whirlpool. Spinning round and round he kept his face from the vortex, striving, but in vain, to overcome the suction of the gigantic eddy.
He could see no signs of his companions. Either they had already disappeared, or else they had been thrown beyond the range of the inverted cone that marked the position of the whirlpool.
Even in danger of imminent death, the sub recalled an incident in the Clarence Victualling Yard, several years ago. He had been taken by his father to see the process of manufacturing ships' biscuits. In one building he saw flour sliding down an inclined plane into a mixing machine. Mingled with the flour were several large maggots, that gave the name to the creek that forms the approach by water to the Victualling Yard. Finding themselves disturbed, the insects tried to wriggle back, but in vain. Down they slid till caught in the mixer, finally to form part of the ingredients of ship's biscuits.
"And I'm almost in the same boat as those weevils," thought Denbigh grimly, as he completed a circle for the twentieth time.
He was nearing the vortex. The spiral motion became quicker. An irresistible force was dragging him down.
Suddenly Denbigh threw up his arms. He was physically played out. Like an arrow he shot into the pit in the centre of that mass of whirling water. The blaze of the African sun gave place to intense darkness. He held his breath, until his lungs seemed to be on the point of bursting.