She went with very little fuss. There was a slight explosion of compressed air, followed by a swirling movement of the water. There appeared to be very little suction and hardly any commotion in the form of breaking waves; but—and Mr. Grant gave an inward prayer of thanks—the schooner had heeled to starboard as she disappeared. Had the dinghy been close alongside she would have been crushed by the vessel’s mainmast or else entangled in the still set canvas as the schooner capsized.
The rowers rested on their oars and watched the vessel’s disappearance with awestruck faces.
“That was a close shave for us,” said Heavitree, breaking the silence.
“It was,” agreed Mr. Grant. “Give way; another dozen strokes will do the trick.”
The dinghy ranged up alongside the Kestrel. Craddock and Heavitree held on while the Scoutmaster handed the heavy burden of the motionless man to the ready arms of Brandon and his companions.
The dinghy was made fast by the painter, but the Kestrel was still kept hove-to while the crew attended to the rescued man.
“He’s still alive,” declared Mr. Grant. “That’s what stunned him.”
He pointed to a nasty gash in the man’s temple from which the blood was flowing slowly. In fact, it had almost ceased to do so, indicating that the injury had been done at least two hours ago. In addition, his right foot was badly nipped, with a superficial but nasty graze extending the whole length of the shin-bone.
“No fracture,” pronounced Mr. Grant after a careful examination of the limbs. “First aid dressings, please, Brandon. We’ll leave him in the cockpit till he recovers consciousness, but keep his body and limbs warm with blankets. He’d better have my bunk to-night.”
“Why, your hand’s bleeding, sir,” exclaimed Carline.