"Is Crosthwaite on board?" enquired the lieutenant-commander of the rescuing craft.
"Badly wounded," was the sub's reply. "We had it fairly hot for a time. Can you give us any details of the result of the action, sir?"
"Yes; we gave them a terrific licking," said the skipper of the Basher. "The rotten part was that the Huns got away during the night. Still, they won't come out again in a hurry. They've been very busy ever since sending out fantastic claims to a decisive victory over the British fleet. On paper they certainly beat us hollow, but the funny part about it is that Jellicoe made a demonstration in force off the Bight of Heligoland yesterday, and the beggars funked the invitation. By the by, the sea's fairly calm. We'll run alongside and tranship your wounded. It will save a lot of bother if you have to abandon ship."
Adroitly manoeuvred in the darkness, for the search-lights were now screened lest a prowling U boat might take advantage of the motionless British destroyers, the Basher was made fast to her disabled consort. Carefully the wounded men were transferred, Dr. Stirling, at the sub's request, going with them, since the Basher was one of a class of destroyers without the services of a medical man.
There was one exception. Crosthwaite resolutely declined to leave his ship.
"She's brought us through thus far," he declared, "and I'll stick to her until we fetch home. Where are we now?"
Sefton was unable to reply until he had enquired of the Basher's navigating officer the position of the ship. The answer was somewhat astonishing; the Calder, when picked up, was forty-five miles from the mouth of the Tyne.
"A precious fine piece of navigation," remarked the sub ruefully. "I was trying to make the Firth of Forth, and instead I find myself barging into the Northumberland coast."
"Might have done a jolly sight worse, old man," said Crosthwaite cheerfully. "You're a brick, Sefton!"
The sub flushed like a schoolgirl, and, bolting from the shell-wrecked ward-room, made for the bridge.