"The stick will go by the board before long," remarked an officer, as the crippled foremast gave a sickening jerk with the roll of the ship to starboard. "The sooner we get out of this the better, I fancy."
It was easier said than done. Even if the attention of the men on deck--and they were busily engaged with hoses in quelling the numerous small outbreaks of fire amidships--could be attracted, it was wellnigh impossible to form a means of communication with the elevated masthead platform.
"Worth risking it?" queried Sefton's chum, indicating the solitary shroud on either side of the mast.
The sub shook his head.
"A tall order," he replied. "I don't seem to have the strength of a steerage rat for a swarm-down from this height. No thanks, I'm not taking any."
"If we had only a coil of signal halyard," remarked the range-finding officer tentatively, "we might---- But there isn't a couple of fathoms of line left aloft."
He thrust his head and shoulders through a hole in the steel plating, and surveyed the scene 100 feet below. Viewed from that dizzy height, the prospect of descending by means of a wire stay was not inviting.
"Hallo!" he exclaimed. "There's a bluejacket swarming aloft."
"Bluejacket" was hardly a strictly correct description, for climbing hand over hand was a man clad only in a pair of canvas trousers. From his waist upwards he was stripped. His feet, too, were bare. His bronzed face, neck, and hands stood out in vivid contrast to the whiteness of the rest of the skin. His muscles, like whipcord, rippled as he ascended with a steady, even movement towards the isolated foretop. From his belt trailed a line the coils of which were being carefully "paid out" by a seaman standing on the extremity of the badly-damaged fore-bridge.
Half-way up the shroud the climber paused to regain his breath. As he threw back his head to gauge the remaining distance, his face was revealed to the group on the swaying platform.