Greatly to Jack's surprise, he found that it was his young brother who had put up such a game struggle with his burly antagonist, and that Dick Crosthwaite's father and brother were of the party. Still greater was the sub's astonishment when he heard a well-known voice exclaim,
"Bear a hand, Jack. It's not at all comfortable here."
With assistance the admiral was extricated from the wreckage, little the worse for his adventure.
"Hang it all, my boy," exclaimed Admiral Sefton, "we were coming to look for you. We heard the Calder was overdue."
"Didn't you get my wire, sir?" asked Jack. "I telegraphed directly we got ashore."
"Considering I've been three days on the road," replied his father, "my postal address isn't of much use. Hulloa, Crosthwaite, what have you got?"
"Nothing much," declared the general. "A clean bullet-wound. Thought I'd been plugged through the chest. The shock knocked me out. By Jove! That was a narrow squeak."
He held his cigar case up for inspection. The bullet had penetrated the lid, and had flattened itself against the back, a bulge proving by how little the missile had missed making a complete perforation.
"The rascal has spoilt two of my choice cigars," announced Crosthwaite Senior wrathfully. "What was the object, I wonder? By George, Sefton, I see ourselves let in for a coroner's inquest."
While Jack and the admiral were attending to George and Leslie, neither of whom showed any signs of serious injury, Farnworth examined the bodies of the three men. Two were stone dead--silent testimonies to the accuracy of the admiral's aim. The third was unconscious, the blow from Farnworth's powerful fist having stunned him. Of the others, one had been drowned, while the remaining member of the gang--the one wounded by the admiral--was at that moment limping painfully over the hills, and putting a safe distance between him and the scene of his rash and foiled exploit.