It was a time of agonizing suspense for Dick Roche. He knew that his chum had gone to save the dinghy; he had heard the rending crash as the frail craft was nipped between the sides of the Olivette and the barge.
A prey to the liveliest apprehension, Dick ran aft, encountering the Tenderfoot, who, having placed the helm amidships, had hurried from the wheel-house.
"Where's Eric?" shouted Roche. "He was in the dinghy."
"On board the barge," replied Phil; "I saw him jump for it."
Roche ran aft and shouted. By this time the derelict had drifted so far that she was a mere shadow in the darkness.
"Ahoy!" came a faint shout, barely audible against the down-wind.
Dick hailed again, but Flemming's reply could not be heard.
"We'll have to get him off the barge somehow, Phil," declared Roche. "We can't wait for the others, and I don't know how they'll get on board. Now, look here: do you think you can manage the helm if I start up the motor?"
"I'll do my best," replied the Tenderfoot resolutely.
"You can't do more," rejoined Roche encouragingly. "So let's get to work and get about it."