"WITHOUT HESITATION SEFTON MADE A FLYING LEAP OVER THE GUARD RAILS"
He sank deeply, and was swept irresistibly by the back-wash; it seemed as if he were fathoms down. Before he emerged he could distinctly hear the whirr of the triple propellers. Rising to the surface he refilled his lungs with the salt-laden air, for the concussion had wellnigh deprived him of breath. Then he gave a hurried glance around him.
The Calder was already a couple of cables' lengths away, while the destroyer next astern was almost on top of him. As she swept by, a lifebuoy was hurled towards the sub, luckily missing him by a bare yard.
The second and last destroyer astern saw the swimmer, and by porting helm avoided him easily, and saved him from the great discomfort of being flung about in her wake like a pea in a saucepan of boiling water. Without making any attempt to slow down and send a boat, the destroyer flotilla held on.
Sefton soon realized the necessity for this apparently inexplicable act. It was impossible without grave risk to the flotilla to break up the formation, while the danger was still further increased by the fact that the First Cruiser Squadron was pelting along somewhere three or four miles astern, and these vessels, being of a considerable tonnage, carried a tremendous amount of way. Above all, it was war-time, and individuals do not count when greater issues are at stake.
Presently the sub descried the head and shoulders of the missing man as he rose on the crest of the broken waves. He, too, had succeeded in reaching a lifebuoy thrown by the nearmost destroyer. Short as had been the time between the man's tumble overboard and Sefton's deliberate leap, owing to the speed of the flotilla nearly a quarter of a mile separated the would-be rescuer from the object of his gallant attempt.
"No use hanging on here," thought Sefton, as he clung to the buoy. "Must get to the man somehow."
Then it was that he realized that he had gone overboard in a thick pilot coat and india-rubber sea-boots. These he sacrificed regretfully, since there was no chance of replenishing his kit until the Calder returned to port--that is, if he had the good fortune to survive his adventure "in the ditch". The operation of discarding the boots gave him a tussle, during which he swallowed more salt water than desirable; then, relaxing his grip on the lifebuoy, Sefton struck out towards the man.
The sub was a good swimmer. At Dartmouth he had been "runner-up" for the 440 yards championship, but now he realized the vast difference between swimming that length in regulation costume and an equal distance almost fully clothed in the choppy North Sea.