"It is," replied Preston feelingly. "If you'd gone through the thing tamely we wouldn't have been in the ditch. Why did you ask me?"
By this time both men had swum to the nearest of the far-flung line of lifebuoys, and, glad of the support, were hanging on lightly at opposite sides of the buoyant "Kisbie".
"'Cause I want corroboration. Last night Murgatroyd bet me a tenner I wouldn't escape it. Have I won?"
"You have."
"Right-o, Preston!" was the delighted response. "I'll stand you a dinner in the swankiest hotel in Adderley Street as soon as we arrive at Cape Town. That's a deal. Hello! They're lowering a boat. What are you looking at?"
The Acting Chief Officer had seen the boat being swung out, and was calculating how long it would take to reach the spot where the lifebuoy was—calculating whether the boat's crew would find only an unoccupied lifebuoy floating in a patch of blood-stained sea—for less than fifty yards away was the black, triangular dorsal fin of an enormous shark.
"Nothing much," replied Preston, as calmly as he could, although the strained expression of his eyes was sufficient to attract his companion's curiosity. "Kick as hard as you jolly well can. Make a splash."
"Shark, eh?" exclaimed the co-partner of the life-buoy. "Right-o! I'm having my money's worth this trip anyway."
"Splash, man, splash!" was Preston's only rejoinder.
*****