Suddenly Gerald Whittinghame gave a shout and pointed towards the starboard observation scuttle. Dacres was just in time to see an object falling—falling with extraordinary irregularity. It was Durango's flying-boat. She was describing a succession of "loops," while her motors were still running.
In the path of the starboard searchlights' rays she appeared to check her downward course; then lurching ahead made straight for the bows of the "Meteor." Just as it seemed as if a collision were imminent the wrecked craft dipped and passed into Cimmerian darkness.
"He's done for, by Jove!"
"What's that?" asked Captain Whittinghame, who had heard his brother's exclamation but had failed to see the reason for it.
"Durango—smashed up," reported Dacres.
Vaughan Whittinghame made no audible remark. H e realized that the "Meteor" herself was in peril. In the face of impending disaster one is apt to banish thoughts of vengeance.
Two hundred feet. Dacres glanced at his watch and looked inquiringly at his chief.
"Well?" asked the Captain laconically.
"We're hardly falling, sir," said the sub. "Our downward course is being greatly retarded——"
"You're right, by Jove!" exclaimed Whittinghame. "All the same, I wish Parsons could get those motors to start."