“I don’t think so, sir,” replied the coxswain. “Are you hungry, sir?”
“No,” replied Raxworthy. “But you fellows—you had supper at one bell and nothing since.”
“That’s a fact, sir,” agreed his coxswain.
The last official meal in a ship is late in the afternoon and is called supper. If a man requires a meal later in the evening he has to buy it in the canteen. Apparently the crew of the picket-boat had not eaten anything since half-past four. The midshipman was better off in that respect. He had had dinner and by now he was feeling decidedly peckish. He wondered how hungry the hands were.
“Then it’s a case of tightening our belts, Wilson,” he remarked. “Carry on smoking: that’ll take the edge off a bit.”
The time dragged with leaden feet. The storm showed no sign of abating. If anything the wind was increasing in strength, and the snow squalls were heavier than earlier in the night. No doubt the commander, alarmed by the non-return of the motor-picket-boat would have sent away the steam pinnace to search for the absentee, but on such a night it would be a case of looking for a needle in a bottle of hay. The pinnace might conceivably pass within half a cable’s length of the disabled picket-boat without being aware of her presence.
Suddenly the picket-boat swung broadside on to a huge wave. The crest swept completely over the boat, almost filling the cockpit and throwing Kenneth violently against the lee coaming.
Even as he struggled to regain his breath—for the force of the blow and a mouthful of icy water had rendered him almost speechless—the midshipman heard Wilson exclaim:
“That’s done it, sir! She’s parted her cable!”