"I don't know. Remember the case of the Ayesha with the Emden's landing-party. They managed to fetch home all the way from the Cocos Keeling Islands. These fellows, with luck, might reach Batavia and be interned by the Dutch Colonial Government."
"And here are we stranded on a desolate sandbank, with precious little grub in the locker," remarked Armstrong. "There's one consolation. We have a boat."
"Of sorts," rejoined the Irishman. "Since she brought us here she ought to take us back to the mainland, although it will be dead to windward."
"What's wrong with Zanzibar?" asked the mate. "It's only about fifty miles to the nor'-west. We've a breeze slightly abaft the beam. She'll do it all right, especially if we take some sand aboard as ballast."
"Right," assented O'Hara. "Let's make a start. It's a howling pity to lose the breeze, and it's a jolly sight cooler on the water than on this sun-baked sandbank."
Quickly the new plan was put into operation. The canoe was launched, and about three hundred-weights of sand thrown into her. On re-embarking the crew found that their frail craft was considerably "stiffer", and showed no great tendency to capsize when one of their number stood upright. In her ballasted state more sail could be carried, and, what was more, she could be steered a point closer to the wind.
All went well until about three in the afternoon, when, with disconcerting suddenness, the wind died utterly away. The crisp, crested waves subsided into a long, sullen, oily swell. The canoe, without steerage way, floated idly upon the water.
"Out paddles!" ordered Denbigh. "You and I, Pat, will take the first trick. At every thousand strokes one man will be relieved. Ready?"
Counting, the sub knew, was the only means at their disposal for arriving at an equal division of labour. It also gave them a rough indication of the progress made, since each stroke represented a distance of two yards through the water.
"See anything?" asked Denbigh at length.