“Hello, Cartwright!”
“Who in the name of fortune are you?” demanded the sub, staring at the ragged, sun-baked youth who had addressed him. “Why, it’s young Raxworthy!”
“What’s left of him. Bear a hand to get the doctor into the boat. He’s from the Ah-Foo.”
Two bluejackets scrambled upon the side of the wreckage. By means of the rope the unconscious man was lowered into the boat, and then, without assistance, the midshipman followed.
But when he gained the stern-sheets he promptly collapsed. He’d gone beyond the limit of human endurance.
An hour later Raxworthy recovered consciousness. He was safe on board the destroyer Buster, and lying on one of her officers’ bunks.
“Didn’t expect to pull you out of the ditch, young man,” observed the destroyer’s lieutenant-commander. “We picked up a wireless signal ordering us to search for a junk that had taken part in the capture of Ah-Foo, but we had no idea you were mixed up in the business.”
“It’s no use searching for that junk,” announced the midshipman. “She blew up. The Ah-Foo’s doc and I are the only survivors—and that was a bit of luck! But, sir, where are you making for—Hong Kong?”
“Perhaps, in ten days’ time.”
“I say, sir! I’m under orders to join Sandgrub at Shanghai!”