The trawlers were creeping along at very slow speed, and without a light of any sort showing. There was not even the usual glow from the funnel top. Lucky it was for Roy and Ken that they were going so slowly, for they were still some little distance from the nearest trawler when the ripples began to wash over the gunwale of the water-logged boat.
'Help!' shouted Roy hoarsely. 'Help!'
'Pull on!' said Ken, as he still baled frantically. 'Pull on! They can't come round if they've got their sweeping cable out.'
Roy made a last effort, and whether it was Roy's shout or the sound of the oars, some one aboard the trawler heard them.
'Who are you?' came a gruff voice, half-muffled, as though afraid of being overheard on shore.
'Friends—British,' answered Ken. 'Our boat's sinking.'
There came a sharp order echoed from the farther ship. The trawlers both slackened speed.
'Come alongside, if you can. We can't pull out to you,' called the same voice that Ken had heard previously.
A few more strokes, then just as the boat was actually sinking under them, a rope came whizzing across. Roy caught it and a moment later, wet and draggled, they were standing on the deck of the trawler.
'Well, I'll be everlastingly jiggered,' exclaimed a gruff voice. 'Where in all that's wonderful did you fellers spring from?' The speaker was a short, square man, but it was so dark that all they could see of his face was that it was round and clean-shaven.