"Fire in the motor-room!" shouted Broadmayne. "Where are the Pyrenes?"
Even then Rollo showed no great haste until looking up he caught a glimpse of the Sub's startled face.
"All right!" he bawled—shouting was the only means of making himself heard with the roar of the atmospheric gas stove. "All right. They're in there. I'll get them."
With that he shot back the sliding door in the metal bulkhead. A blast of hot air and flames sent him backwards, half-dazed. Involuntarily he raised one hand to protect his eyes; then backing through the compartment next the seat of the fire, he gained the saloon.
He had left the bulkhead door open. A tongue of fire licked the panelled ceiling of the saloon. Madly he turned, swarmed up the ladder and gained the open air.
Seeing his chum safe, the Sub did the best possible thing. Descending into the saloon, he fought his way to the bulkhead and closed the door. Then emerging by the same way he had entered, he ran aft over the already excessively hot cabin top and closed the engine-room hatchway. There was a chance—a hundred to one chance—that the flames might die out through lack of oxygen.
"Come aft!" shouted Broadmayne.
Vyse, now gaining more control over himself, obeyed. By now the motors had ceased to function. The flames, igniting the petrol in the carburettors, had melted the unions of the petrol-pipes. Instead of the inflammable spirit mixing with air and exploding within the cylinders—as it ought to do, two steady streams were pouring direct from the tanks, to add fresh fuel to the flames.
"Thirty gallons in the tanks!" shouted Rollo in reply to his companion's unspoken question. "I'll go for'ard and turn off the taps. We'll be blown sky-high if we don't."
He placed one foot on the coaming before hoisting himself over the roof of the wheel-house. As he did so, the motor-room skylight blew out with a loud report, sending a pillar of flame-tinged smoke a full thirty feet into the air, and throwing every part of the deck into bold relief by reason of the dazzling light.