With an agility born of long practice, the petty officer made his way out along the lower boom and, watching his opportunity, dropped upon the fore-deck of the heaving motor-picket-boat.
The midshipman followed. Encumbered as he was with board-stiff oilskins and heavy sea-boots his movements were slower. He knew perfectly well that a slip would mean almost certain death—with the choice of being crushed between the boat’s and the ship’s side or of being carried down by the weight of his boots. Even if he found himself in the ditch and were able to kick off his boots, he could not keep himself afloat for more than a few seconds in the piercingly cold water.
At the end of the boom Raxworthy groped for the jacob’s ladder, descended three or four rungs and then hung on—waiting.
A dozen feet below him was a smooth triangular patch upon which the rays of the red, white and green navigation lamps blended in a weird colour scheme. That patch was the motor-picket-boat’s fore-deck, and upon it he must drop or pay the penalty for failure.
The midshipman waited. Up came the boat’s bows on the crest of a huge wave that threw showers of icy spray to right and left.
His feet were almost touching the slippery teak planks—yet he hesitated.
The opportunity was lost, for the next moment the bows dipped. Then with a jerk that shook the lower boom like a twanged bow-string the boat snubbed at her painter, shipped a few tons of water over her fore-deck and rose like a mastiff emerging from the sea, until once more the midshipman’s feet were almost touching the heaving planks.
“Let go, sir, I’ll steady you!” roared the coxswain, his voice barely audible above the noise of the elements.
Involuntarily shutting his eyes, Raxworthy relaxed his grip and dropped. Even as his rubber-shod soles slithered on the slippery deck he felt himself gripped by both arms.
“Right you are, sir!” exclaimed the petty officer reassuringly. “Hang on, sir, she’s going to snub something cruel!”