"Wonder how the fire started?" he asked. "You weren't in the motor-room at all, were you?"
"No," replied Rollo. "Not the last time. I meant to go directly we'd had something to eat. It's just possible that when we bumped against that lump of wreckage the jar might have started one of the petrol pipes. And then it might be anything: short circuit of one of the high tension wires, for example."
Slowly—painfully slowly—the hours sped. In spite of frequent spells at the scull Vyse felt the cold acutely; more so than did his companion, for he had been rather badly scorched about the face, and the night air irritated rather than soothed the sting.
Once, when a gentle breeze sprang up, they thrust a stretcher through the arms of the pegamoid coat and lashed it to the oar, stepping the latter as a mast. For about twenty minutes the dinghy maintained a steady rate of progress. Broadmayne entertained hopes of making either Swanage Bay or the sandy shore of Bournemouth Bay. Then the wind died utterly away.
"What's the time?" inquired Vyse, for the thirtieth time at least.
"Quarter-past six," replied the Sub, without making the least effort to stifle a prodigious yawn.
"Another three-quarters of an hour before dawn," muttered Rollo. "There's a light astern."
Broadmayne looked.
"Shambles Lightship," he declared. "It's clearing a bit. We haven't made much progress. The tide must be setting to the west'ard. Hello, what's that?"
"What's what?" asked Vyse, following the direction of' his companion's outstretched arm. "Can't see anything."