"That's done it!" shouted Rollo. "We can't save her now. The dinghy, old man!"
At first the Sub could see no sign of the tender. He fully expected to see her trailing astern, but as the burning Ibex had lost all way the dinghy had ranged up alongside the starboard side.
There was no time to save anything. Casting off the painter, Broadmayne shouted to his companion to look alive. Vyse leapt into the dinghy, the Sub followed, giving a vigorous push as he sat down and sending the little cockleshell clear of the floating inferno.
"Where's the other scull?" demanded Broadmayne anxiously.
There was only one in the dinghy. By some means one had been lost overboard. How or when, they knew not; nor could they waste time in forming conjectures; and since there was no sculling-notch in the transom, the only way to propel the little craft was by paddling with alternate strokes on either side.
It was slow work; but not before the dinghy was fifty yards away from the burning Ibex did the Sub boat his oar.
"Now what's to be done?" he inquired.
"Wait and see the last of her," replied Vyse. "Luckily, she's fully insured."
"You'll be lucky if you are alive to draw the money," thought Broadmayne, for it was a most unenviable position to be in. Ten miles from land, and almost every foot of that land a frowning, surf-swept cliff, Portland Race to the west'ard and St. Albans Race waiting for them if they attempted to close the land. Although the wind was light, almost a flat calm, there was a steady swell, indicating a strong breeze, perhaps a gale, before very long. Overhead, save for the ruddy glare from the fiercely burning yacht, it was as black as pitch. Not a star was visible. It was only by remembering that the faint breeze came from the west'ard (and it might back or veer at any time) could any sense of direction be maintained.
In silence the two chums watched the passing of the Ibex. Amidships, flames were pouring fifty feet into the air. The coach-roof and part of the top strikes had gone to feed the flames, the cracking of woodwork adding to the roar of the burning petrol. Sizzling embers were falling like sparks from a dying squib, hissing as they dropped into the water. It was a question as to what would happen first: whether the hull, burned to the water's edge, would founder before the fire reached the fuel tanks.