At daybreak the gale moderated. The inky clouds were disappearing to leeward, while the sun rising in a greyish mist betokened, in conjunction with a steadier glass, the approach of better weather. Still the sea ran high, the absence of rain causing the white-crested tips to curl and break viciously.
For the first time for thirty hours Farrar went below to enjoy a brief spell of welcome sleep. So dog-tired was he that he waited only to draw off his sea-boots, discard his oilskin, hurriedly drink a cup of cocoa and munch a couple of biscuits, than he threw himself into his bunk "all standing," and was soon lost to the world.
It seemed that he had been asleep for less than two minutes when a voice exclaimed,
"Large transport just torpedoed, sir; three miles on our starboard bow."
CHAPTER XXIV
THE SINKING TRANSPORT
HIS utter weariness deserting him on the receipt of this disconcerting intelligence, Sub-Lieutenant Farrar leapt from his bunk, pulled on his boots, and ran up the companion ladder.
Already Mr. Gripper had called the men to action stations. The for'ard disappearing gun had been raised, its presence being hidden from outside observation by the foot of the reefed foresail. Prone on the deck lay the uniformed crew, alertly awaiting orders to man the quick-firers and strafe the lurking foe.
The sun was now shining brightly, although the wind was still strong—"Force Six," according to the warrant officer's report. A wicked-looking sea, white with foam, extended as far as the eye could reach, the monotonous crests being broken in one place by the grey hull of a badly listing vessel of about 8,000 tons.