It saved the situation—or rather the loud report did—for it checked the onrush of the enormous shark that had turned on its back in order to seize its prey.
Then, carrying way up to the last moment, the boat ran close to the swimmer. Again willing hands hauled the third would-be victim into safety—but with what a narrow margin!
Even as the rescued man flopped across the gunwale, a shark rasped under the keel and lifted one of the oars out of the rowlock.
“Hello, Greig!” exclaimed the Supreme’s third officer.
But Greig, the tramp’s wireless operator, made no reply. He had fainted.
“How many of you are left on board?” asked Raxworthy.
“Seven Britishers—at least there were ten of us when the ship was taken,” replied the third officer. “They’ve kept the engineers below; promised all sorts of nasty things if they didn’t keep the old hooker going. But, if I know anything of Old McKie—he’s the chief—he’ll scupper the engines directly he knows that there’s a warship on their track.”
The whaler held on, following the rapidly receding destroyer and the Supreme. Although Raxworthy kept a sharp look out for signals from the latter announcing that yet another captive had been thrown overboard, Buster made no announcement. Nevertheless the midshipman repeatedly swept the intervening stretch of water with his binoculars in case the pirates had jettisoned another of their prisoners, who in the excitement of the chase might have escaped the notice of the destroyer’s crew.
Both vessels were almost hull-down when Raxworthy heard the muffled boom of a gun, quickly followed by another.
Gone were his chances of smelling powder. Buster was in action and he was miles astern in the whaler. It was disappointing, but there was no small measure of compensation in the fact that he was engaged in saving life.