He went below to interview the perspiring leading stoker.
“Can’t make nothing of it, sir,” confessed that worthy. “She won’t have it either on petrol or paraffin. I reckon the jet’s choked.”
“Then for goodness’ sake unship the thing and clean it!” rejoined Kenneth, and waited to see the operation performed.
Whether it was the midshipman’s presence that flurried the man or that his fingers were slippery with oil that was responsible for the mishap was immaterial. The fact remained that the jet fell from the leading stoker’s grasp, glanced from the crank-case and disappeared underneath the tray. Without unbolting and removing the engine—a task that in the circumstances was out of the question—the jet was irrecoverably lost.
Kenneth returned on deck feeling anything but happy. The loss of the jet was a pure accident and no good purpose would be served by slanging the man.
Other steps must be taken to extricate the picket-boat from her hazardous position—and again Kenneth rose to the occasion.
“Motor’s konked, Wilson,” he announced laconically. “I’m letting off some Verey lights and then the steam pinnace will be along to take us in tow.”
The coxswain, behind the midshipman’s back, shrugged his shoulders and thought it was about time that he kicked off his sea-boots.
Searching in one of the lockers, Kenneth found the Verey pistol. Inserting a cartridge he fired into the air.
Two hundred feet above the boat the rocket burst into a red glare, but so heavy was the fall of snow that only a faint glimmer was visible from the cockpit. Obviously, then, the signal of distress would be totally invisible from the Kirkham, which was now at least a mile and a half to wind’ard. Nor would the report be heard. Nothing short of wireless, which the picket-boat did not possess, would establish communication with the light cruiser on such a night.