By the time the sub came within hailing distance of the seaman his limbs felt as heavy as lead, while, do what he would, he was unable to raise his voice above a whisper, much less "assure the drowning man in a loud, firm voice that he is safe", according to the official regulations. Sefton was by no means certain that he himself was in anything but a most precarious position.
Sefton found that the man he had risked his life to save was not half so exhausted as he was. The seaman had come off lightly in his fall, and he had had no occasion to tire himself with a long swim to the lifebuoy, since the crew of the passing destroyer had all but brained him with the cork "Kisbie".
The A.B. regarded his rescuer with a look that betokened pained disapproval. He was one of those men who are ever "up against discipline". To him the gold band and curl on a uniform meant something more than authority: it roused a spirit of sullen aggression.
And yet Thomas Brown had joined the Royal Navy with the best intentions. Fate, in the shape of a short-tempered recruiting-officer, had marred his career from the very start; for, on joining the training-school at Shotley, one of the questions asked of him was the name of his birthplace.
"Ashby-de-la-Zouch, sir," replied young Brown, giving the name with the accepted Leicestershire accent.
"Where did you say?" enquired the lieutenant.
The recruit repeated the words.
"Zoo, did you say?" snapped the officer.
"Yes, sir," rejoined Thomas Brown without a moment's hesitation. "The next cage to yours."
The repartee came absolutely on the spur of the moment. A second's reflection might have made all the difference. It was a bad start, and the newly-entered boy suffered for it. That was some years ago, but in the Royal Navy the old adage of giving a dog a bad name holds good longer than anywhere else.