Till we came to the end of the breakwater, the distress foghorn signals continued. As we swung round it they ceased!
Out to sea for a mile or so we steered, looking vainly for lights to the horizon and the S.W. and saw nothing. Then looked behind us, and there, on the most unlikely place in the world, were the lights of a ship, on the breakwater rocks, close to the fixed shore light!
Round we turned, going our best speed, and stopped when we had got as close as we thought advisable in the darkness, shoved over our flat dory and rowed off with a lantern in the bow.
The steamer was rolling gently on the rocks; we rowed close and the writer in the bow hailed them on board and offered a tow off into the harbour. The crew we could see, and they preserved silence for some time.
“Hullo!” we shouted. “On board there, were you sending up distress signals?” A reluctant “Yes” and “Who are you?” from the gloom on deck, where there was a little light that showed some Dutch courage going around. And we answered, and asked in turn: “Where’s your skipper?”
“Below with owners.”
“Well, tell him to speak”—pause—then came the skipper’s “Hullo! what do you want?”
“What do we want!” we repeat very angrily. “Weren’t you firing rockets and blowing yourself inside out with distress signals?”
No answer.
“Were those distress signals?” we ask again, and there’s a reluctant “Yes” and still another “What do you want and who are you?”