"No immediate danger so long as the ground tackle holds," declared Osborne. "There's a fair amount of wind, and a decent sea, but they'll send out a vessel to tow us back in less than an hour, I fancy."
Webb, too, thanked his lucky stars that the weather conditions were moderate. He found himself picturing a huge unwieldy vessel, with her gaping seams held together with ropes, drifting helplessly towards that self-same shore, notwithstanding the ineffectual drag of four anchors cast from the stern. For No. 0916 was off the mouth of St. Paul's Bay, the reputed scene of the Apostle's shipwreck upon the "island which is called Melita".
Webb's reveries were interrupted by the sight of a huge grey shape coming into view round a projecting cliff. The shape gradually resolved itself into a large transport, outward bound for the Near East, and making for Valetta en route.
"Pretty rotten pickle!" ejaculated Osborne savagely. "Here we are as helpless as a log, and in full view of those fellows."
"I don't suppose they'll notice us," said Webb. "We're lying close in. I say," he added, laying down his position-finder, "we're drifting pretty rapidly; isn't it about time we dropped the hook?"
"Yes," assented the Lieutenant. "We'll anchor at once. All clear for'ard?"
"All clear, sir."
With a plash the mass of metal disappeared beneath the waves, taking with it nearly forty fathoms of chain before Osborne gave the order to check the cable. No. 0916, no longer drifting broadside to wind and waves, rode jerkily at the end of the length of chain.
By this time the transport was in full view at a distance of one-and-a-half sea miles, and was slowing down in order to prevent damage to the shore by her bow wave.
"Periscopes on the port bow, sir!" shouted one of the patrol-boat's crew, indicating with his outstretched arm a couple of objects that looked like a pair of short sticks, at a distance of less than a hundred yards.