Left to himself, Kenneth began to realize once more that his hand was throbbing. The flow of blood had entirely ceased, and a dry, burning pain succeeded the comparative ease of the wound while it bled freely. He was desperately hungry and thirsty. For forty-eight hours he had been on short commons. The reaction of the days and nights of strenuous activity was beginning to tell.
The motor-boat, gliding swiftly through the water, had now outstripped all the fishing luggers. Ahead were three or four steamers making to the westward. Others, shaping a course for Ostend, had swung away to the port hand.
"Rollo!" sang out his chum sharply. "Come and take the helm for a minute."
"I was just coming," answered Rollo as he emerged from the cabin. "There's coffee waiting for you. And the girls have made a rattling good job of my wrist," he added, pointing to a neatly-bandaged arm in a sling.
"Follow that vessel," ordered Kenneth, pointing to a steamer a couple of miles ahead, her stern-light showing brightly in the clear starlit night. "If you overhaul her, or if there's anything likely to be dangerous, give me the word."
"One minute," protested Rollo. "The spray's dashing in through the broken scuttles. I'll try and fix up the strip of canvas. It's long enough to go right round."
Kenneth waited until his chum had completed the necessary and self-imposed task. Being able to use only one hand, it was a difficult, not to say dangerous, business securing the canvas round the raised cabin-top, for the boat was now jumping considerably.
"That's done it!" ejaculated Rollo. "Now, old man, down you go. I'll keep her going somehow."
"You have been a time, Kenneth," exclaimed his sister reproachfully. "Your coffee is getting cold. Why, what's the matter?"
She broke off her reproaches in alarm, for Kenneth's face was grey and drawn in the light of the cabin-lamp.