“That'll fetch something,” he says, while Captain Hodgson watches the General Communicator. He has called up the North Banks Mark Boat, a few hundred miles west, and is reporting the case.
“I'll stand by you,” Captain Purnall roars to the lone figure on the conning-tower.
“Is it as bad as that?” comes the answer. “She isn't insured. She's mine.”
“Might have guessed as much,” mutters Hodgson. “Owner's risk is the worst risk of all!”
“Can't I fetch St. John's—not even with this breeze?” the voice quavers.
“Stand by to abandon ship. Haven't you any lift in you, fore or aft?”
“Nothing but the midship tanks, and they're none too tight. You see, my Ray gave out and—” he coughs in the reek of the escaping gas.
“You poor devil!” This does not reach our friend. “What does the Mark Boat say, George?”
“Wants to know if there's any danger to traffic. Says she's in a bit of weather herself, and can't quit station. I've turned in a General Call, so even if they don't see our beam some one's bound to help—or else we must. Shall I clear our slings? Hold on! Here we are! A Planet liner, too! She'll be up in a tick!”
“Tell her to have her slings ready,” cries his brother captain. “There won't be much time to spare... Tie up your mate,” he roars to the tramp.