Now came the more difficult task of transhipping the rescued men from the life-boat to the Portchester Castle. Without means of hoisting the heavy boat bodily out of the water, the armed merchant-cruiser's crew had to haul each survivor separately by means of bowlines and bos'n's chairs, for most of the passengers had collapsed from exposure.
There were two exceptions, however: one a tall, fair-haired man in the khaki uniform of a Major of artillery. In spite of the fact that his left arm was in a sling, he experienced no difficulty in making the ascent, and came over the side with a decided smile on his face.
Sub-lieutenant Webb looked at him intently; then, to confirm his surmise, he glanced at the officer's companion—a slightly shorter and broad-shouldered man of about forty. His face was bronzed, his hair, crisp in spite of the drenching spray, was tinged with grey at the temples. His attire consisted of a pair of navy-blue trousers and a shirt. It afterwards transpired that he had given his monkey-jacket to one of the lady passengers, or Webb would have recognized him as a Lieutenant-commander of the Royal Naval Reserve.
"By Jove, Billy!" drawled the naval man. "Thought you and I, old bird, would have had to swim for it—eh what? How's that groggy wrist of yours now?"
Tom Webb hesitated no longer. He stepped up to the pair of rescued officers and held out his hand.
"Thanks, many thanks," exclaimed the coatless one. "You're the Sub in charge of the steamboat? Smart bit of work, 'pon my word."
"Glad to have the opportunity of repaying a good turn, Mr. Dacres," said Webb.
"Good turn?" repeated Dacres, knitting his brows. "Good turn. I don't follow you. I haven't met you before, have I?"
"Yes, and so has Mr. Fane."
Mr. Fane was equally at a loss.