"Distress signal!" exclaimed Peter.
"Not vivid enough," rejoined his companion "Might be a rocket from one of the Dowsings—the Inner, most likely. If——"
Another flash, faintly visible through the murk, interrupted Anstey's words. For several seconds both men listened intently for the double detonation. None was audible. Distance and the howling of the elements had completely deadened the reports.
Even as they looked a steady pin-prick of reddish light appeared on exactly the same bearing as the previous flashes. For perhaps fifteen seconds it remained constant; then momentarily it grew in volume until a trailing column of ruddy flame, fringed by a wind-torn cloud of smoke, illuminated the distant horizon.
Bringing his night-glasses to bear upon the source of the flames the Third Officer studied the scene. Then, replacing the binoculars, he shouted to his companion:
"Vessel ablaze from end to end. Tanker, I guess. I'm off to call the Old Man."
Captain Bullock was quickly out of his cabin. He had waited merely to put on his bridge-coat over his pyjamas and thrust his bare feet into a huge pair of sea-boots. He was one of those powerfully framed, tough men for whom the sudden change of temperature had no terrors and few discomforts.
Shouting a hoarse yet unmistakable order to the secum at the wheel, and ringing down to the engine-room for increased speed, Captain Bullock waited until the West Barbican had steadied on her new course, then he turned to the Third Officer.
"She's a tanker, right enough, Anstey. Got it properly in the neck. See that the boats are cleared away, although I'm afraid there's precious little chance of using them in this sea. I'm off to shift into thicker togs."
In five minutes the Old Man returned. By this time the West Barbican, making a good twelve and a half knots against the head wind and sea, had got within a couple of miles of the doomed vessel.