"Get a nun-buoy ready to veer astern," he continued, "and signal to No. 6 to keep the thing dose under her bows. If she doesn't, we'll be losing each other."
While the men were making these preparations the hideous clamour of No. 6's foghorn attracted their attention. The lighters had increased their distance to nearly a quarter of a mile, and No. 6 was still dropping astern.
"Ask 'em what's wrong," ordered McIntosh.
A signalman, steadying himself with feet planted widely apart on the plunging deck, semaphored the message. From No. 6 two red and yellow hand-flags replied. McIntosh, unable to follow the swift movements of the flags, was obliged to await the signalman's report:
"Says, sir, she's overheated her bearings. She'll have to stop or her engines'll seize up."
It was exactly what the Sub was anticipating, and now trouble had come he met it promptly and resolutely.
"Tell them to stand by and receive a hawser," he ordered, at the same time ringing down for "Slow." "Look alive, there, with that six-inch rope."
While the men were engaged in bringing one end of the hawser to the after "towing-bitts," McIntosh took the helm and began to run to starboard in order to close with the disabled lighter. He was working against time, for already the mist was upon them—the outflung tentacles of a bank of fog. With a range of visibility of three or four hundred yards, matters were somewhat complicated, but the manoeuvre of establishing communication with the helpless craft would be rendered fourfold difficult, should the baffling fog envelop the two boats.
"All ready with the heaving-line?" shouted the Sub.
"All ready, sir."