Having shut off steam, the chief picked up a small leather handbag, packed with considerable care and forethought a few hours previously, and returned on deck. Already most of the crew were in the boats.
Captain Quelch, likewise equipped with a handbag, and with the ship's papers under his arm, was acting up to the time-honoured traditions of the British Mercantile Marine—to be the last to quit the sinking ship.
"She's not going very fast," he said in an undertone to the chief engineer.
"Man, she'll not last five minutes," was the reassuring reply, as the chief threw one leg over the rail and dropped into a boat alongside.
The Old Man, giving a final glance around, followed his example.
"Give way, lads, smartly!" he exclaimed. "Se's going."
The boat pushed off, the Old Man steering her towards the others, which were barely discernible in the fog.
"Keep together," he ordered. "Got a compass in your boat, Mr. Baldock?"
"Ay, ay, sir," replied the chief officer.
"Then course N. by E.," ordered the captain. "We'll make for Aberstour. 'Tis but a couple of hours' pulling at most."