"By George!" ejaculated Sefton's chum. "It's the man you went into the ditch after."
It was Able Seaman Brown. Having lost touch with his officer during the engagement, his first thoughts after the Warrior had ceased fire were for the sub who had risked his life on his behalf. Enquiries elicited the information that Sefton had been last seen while ascending to the fire-control platform.
"Blow me if they ain't properly cut off," muttered the man, as he eyed the precarious perch. "Here goes."
Obtaining the consent of one of the officers to attempt his perilous ascent, A.B. Brown was now well on his way to establish communication with the deck.
Perspiring from every pore, his muscles creaking under the strain, the horny palms of his hands lacerated by the frayed strands of the wire, the seaman at length gained one of the angle-girders upon which the platform was bolted. Here he remained for fully five minutes before essaying the last part of his journey.
Hanging from the metal structure was a block, from which the running-gear had long since "rendered through". The man examined it critically. To all outward appearance it seemed to be sound.
Jockeying himself along the sharp-edged angle-plate, Brown rove the end of the rope through the block, and "paid out" until the line touched the deck. Fortunately there was enough to spare. Three or four of the Warrior's crew were standing by to give assistance, and quickly bent a "bos'n's chair" to one end of the rope.
"Come along, sir," exclaimed the A.B. encouragingly. "We'll have the lot of you down in a jiffy."
He held out his hand to steady Sefton on his dizzy journey along the metal "bracket", until a sudden thought flashed across his mind. What if the rope carried away or the pulley-block was defective?
"Hold on, sir," he said. "I'll show you the way down."