Vainly he endeavoured to smother the charring fabric. His right arm was as helpless as that of a new-born babe. Stealthily, yet steadily, the patch of calcined canvas was increasing. At any moment, fanned by the terrific draught, it might burst into flames.
Then he became aware of some one lying flat beside him: of Kirkwood drenching the burning plane with a fire-extinguishing chemical, of the spray of the liquid blowing back into his face.
"That's settled it, by Jove!" shouted Kirkwood in the sub's ear. "Nip on down. Can't? Here, let me give you a hand."
As in a dream the injured officer found himself assisted to the hull of the flying-boat. She had left the bursts of shrapnel far astern and was heading homewards. Her consorts were also returning—all four.
"Good man!" exclaimed Barcroft admiringly, as Farrar gained the deck. "What, hit?"
The sub shook his head. Everything was growing very dim and misty.
"Not at all!" he replied, his voice sounding strange and distant. "Not at all. A great strafe, wasn't it?"
"Mind his hand, Billy," exclaimed some one warningly—also dim and distant seemed his voice. "It's pretty bad."
Barcroft was only just in time to save the injured sub from dropping inertly at his feet as merciful oblivion overtook him.