Quickly the mate and a couple of hands cut away the rigging that held the topmast alongside. The heavy spar, which had been bumping heavily against the side, fell clear. The Myrtle, no longer impeded by the trailing wreckage, forged rapidly through the water, although she was now carrying foresail, staysail, and outer jib only.
By this time day had broken. The snow had ceased falling, and right ahead the pale sun shone in a grey, misty sky.
The crew, having made all ship-shape as far as lay in their power, were curiously regarding the cause of the catastrophe. They rather looked upon it as a diversion to break the monotony.
"There's a log of sorts, sir," exclaimed one of the men, fumbling with the leather straps that secured the unused petrol bomb. The missile had been badly dented, but luckily the safety cap was intact. Had it not been so, the bomb would have ignited on impact, and the Myrtle, her snow-swept deck notwithstanding, would soon have been enveloped in flames from stem to stern.
"Don't fool around with it, Ted," said another of the crew, who, an R.N.R. man, had seen life and death in the Great War. "It's a bomb."
"Well," observed Captain Prout, "that's more'n I bargained for. I've taken my chances with floating mines, but it's coming too much of a good thing when these airmen blokes start chucking bombs haphazard-like."
"Best pitch the thing overboard," suggested the mate.
"No," objected the Old Man. "If we do, we've no evidence. Someone's got to pay for this lash up. Government broad arrow on the thing, too. That fixes it. When we make Hobart I'll raise Cain or my name's not Abraham Prout."
[CHAPTER XVIII--UNDER FIRE]
"It's going to be a close race, Kenyon," remarked Fosterdyke, as Z64 crossed the "Golden Hind's" bows at a distance of less than a mile.