"Why doesn't the silly josser fire again?" he soliloquised. "'Tis looking for a needle in a bloomin' haystack. Lay on your oars!" he added aloud.
The men obeyed. The boat, still carrying way, slipped through the water with a gurgling sound.
"Hear anything?" asked the coxswain of the crew in general.
He was obviously perplexed. According to his own estimation the boat must have overrun the spot from whence those three flashes came.
"There he is; on our port bow!" shouted the bowman.
"Sure thing," agreed the coxswain. "Give way, lads ... way 'nough. In bow ... Bless me if there ain't two of 'em in the bloomin' ditch."
Ten seconds later Colin Sinclair, limp and barely conscious, was hauled over the bows and passed aft like a sack of flour, to collapse inertly upon the stern-sheet gratings. Van der Wyck followed, muttering his thanks, although in a state of exhaustion.
"May as well hike that buoy on board, Tubby," observed the coxswain dispassionately. "Now, lads, let her rip. It's my middle watch, worse luck."