Six hours later he was up, feeling considerably refreshed. All that had to be done in an official sense had been carried out, and he was free to proceed on well-earned leave.
A steam pinnace landed him and his scanty belongings on the Gateshead side of the river. Clad in mufti, since his uniform was little more than a collection of scorched rags, the sub made his way towards the station.
Perhaps, now that the arduous period of responsibility had passed, Sefton was feeling the reaction. At any rate his usual alertness had temporarily deserted him, for, on crossing a crowded thoroughfare, he narrowly escaped being knocked down by a passing motor-car.
"Why don't you look----?" began the owner of the car; then: "Bless my soul, Sefton! Whoever expected to see you here! Thought you had been done in, 'pon my soul I did. Where's the Calder? And how's old Crosthwaite?"
The speaker was Sub-lieutenant Farnworth, Sefton's old shipmate on board the Hammerer, where both had served as midshipmen during the earlier stages of the war.
"They slung me out of the submarine service," said Farnworth, after Sefton had briefly replied to his friend's enquiries. "Why? Oh, merely a bit of bad luck! Crocked my leg, don't you know."
Farnworth was too modest to give details. He had vivid recollections of a dirty day in the North Sea, with submarine E-- lying awash, and a hostile mine foul of her bows. The plucky young officer, assisted by a couple of equally resolute seamen, succeeded in freeing the submarine from the unwelcome attentions of the metal globe, but in so doing the mooring-chain had surged, fracturing Farnworth's thigh as the heavy mine dropped clear.
It took three months at Haslar Hospital, followed by six weeks at Osborne, to set matters right, but the sub's leg was permanently shortened. To his great relief, Farnworth was not invalided out of the Service, although unfit for sea. He was given a good billet in the Intelligence Department, his district covering the Tyne ports, Hull, and Liverpool.
With a powerful car at his disposal, Farnworth was in clover. His sole regret was his inability to tread the planks of a British war-ship. The call of the sea was strong. He would willingly have relinquished his "cushy job" to be in command of the slowest little torpedo-boat flying the White Ensign.
"I'm keeping you," said Sefton at length.