'Haven't a notion. But she's probably British or French. The Turks haven't got much in the way of craft—at least not this side of Gallipoli.'
'Then I vote for trying to make her,' said Roy. 'Right you are,' Ken answered, and began baling harder than ever Roy, pulling on his left-hand oar, got the boat round, and made a last spurt in the direction of the sound.
It seemed a very forlorn hope. They could not even see the craft—whatever she was—and their boat manifestly had but a short time to live. If she sank out in mid-straits there was no earthly chance of reaching the shore. Drowning was certain.
Three minutes passed. The water in the boat was nearly knee deep. Pull as he might, Roy could hardly keep her moving. Ken raised his head and peered out through the gloom.
'I see her,' he said with sudden eagerness. He pointed as he spoke to a dim shape not more than a couple of hundred yards away.
Roy glanced back over his shoulder. 'She's very small,' he said, 'and she's working upstream. Hallo, there's another just beyond her—a pair of 'em.'
'Two, are there? Then I tell you what they are—trawlers.'
'Trawlers!' echoed Roy. 'What—catching herrings for the Admiral's breakfast?'
'No, you ass—mines. They're mine-sweepers of course.' Roy gave a low whistle.
'I'd sooner catch herrings,' he said. 'But never mind. So long as they're British, that's all that matters.' And he set to pulling again with all the energy left him.