"Mr. Pengelly!" shouted the skipper.
The second in command hurried along the alleyway, performing a fantastic two-step.
"Pull yourself together, man," exclaimed Captain Cain sternly. "We're in a bit of a fix."
Pengelly's light-hearted demeanour fell from him like a shedded garment.
"What is it now, sir?" he inquired anxiously.
"Precious little oil-fuel left," replied the captain. "Look here: do you know Portreath? What sort of a harbour is it?"
"Not enough water for us," replied Pengelly. "You're surely not going to take the ship into port?"
"No fear," responded Cain grimly. "But I want to send a boat ashore. You'd better take her. We must arrange with Porthoustoc to supply us with oil. While you are ashore, you might get hold of a batch of newspapers. We don't appear to be getting much information by wireless."
"There'll be a heavy breaking sea across the mouth of Portreath harbour," objected Pengelly.
"A chance for you to display your seamanship," added Cain, with grim humour. "We'll run up along before daybreak and then retrace our course. People ashore will think we're outward-bound. Pick your crew. I'll write a letter to Old Silas, giving him instructions."