exerting every ounce of strength, olive tried and tried in vain to haul mostyn into the boat. in normal conditions he was no light weight, and now, in his waterlogged clothing and wearing a cumbersome lifebelt, he was so heavy that the girl could do no more than lift his head and shoulders clear of the water.

she called to the lascars for assistance, but the only reply she received from the two men for'ard was: "no good; him dead man."

mahmed, however, although he had no doubt that he was handling a corpse, came to her aid, although he worked with an averted face. even with his assistance olive had a hard task, but at length peter was unceremoniously bundled over the gunwale, and placed in the stern-sheets close to the unconscious preston.

anxiously the girl gazed at his pallid face, hoping to detect some sign of life. then she began the operations as laid down in the instructions for restoring the apparently drowned.

in her schooldays olive had been taught this useful knowledge, but she had never before had an opportunity of putting the knowledge to the test. she felt none too sure of it. once or twice she found herself wondering whether she was doing the wrong thing.

for a full half-hour she kept up the respiratory exercises, until, in the uncertain light of the lantern, she fancied that the colour was stealing back to peter's face.

"he is alive; your master isn't dead!" she exclaimed to the hitherto apathetic mahmed.

the announcement had an electrical effect upon the indian boy. peter dead was nothing to him; peter living was his master for whom he had undoubted affection and devotion.

he began chafing mostyn's hands, while olive, now deadly tired, doggedly continued her efforts.

mostyn's heart was now beating. his nostrils were quivering. he was breathing faintly, but with steadily increasing strength. though partially choked by the water he had involuntarily swallowed when carried down by the ship, he had been saved from suffocation by his lifebelt, which kept his head clear of the water after he had regained the surface.

restoring the circulation was the next step. fortunately both the water and air were warm, and the dangerous consequences of a prolonged immersion were mitigated. had the disaster occurred in other than tropical waters, the comparatively low temperature would have been fatal.

at length peter opened his eyes. he was quite at a loss to grasp the situation. the lamplight puzzled him. at first he was under the impression that he was in his bunk, and that either watcher partridge or watcher plover had roused him to take in a signal. somehow that didn't seem correct. awkwardly he fumbled for the edge of the bunk board. instead, his fingers encountered the stern-grating. then his attention was wonderingly attracted by one of the knees of the after thwart. it had been split, and the sight of it irritated him, although he didn't know why, exactly.

he was beginning to realize that he was in a boat. how he got there, and why he should be in it, was a perplexity. it might be the old man's motor-launch—but no! something was wrong somewhere.

a dozen fantastic theories flashed across his mind, only to be dismissed so unsatisfactorily that the failure made him angry. one thing he was certain of. miss baird was with him, but what she was doing there was a baffling problem. he wanted to speak to her, but hesitated lest that certainty should turn out to be an unreality.

he was still cudgelling his brain when he fell into a fitful and uneasy sleep.

the short tropical dawn was breaking when peter awoke. he was now fully conscious of the events leading up to the foundering of the west barbican, but was still at a loss to account for his presence in the boat. stranger still it was to find that he had not been labouring under a hallucination with regard to olive baird.

the girl was sleeping on the bottom-boards, her head pillowed on a lifebelt. on the next thwart sat mrs. shallop, looking extremely dishevelled, with her black hair streaming in the wind. for once she was silent. on recovering consciousness she had grumbled considerably. now there was no one to listen to her complaints. peter had been asleep; olive was still slumbering. preston, although awake, was decidedly light-headed. as for mahmed and the two lascars, they were huddled together in the bows awaiting the appearance of the sun with its beneficent warmth.

peter sat up wonderingly. his head swam a little, and he felt as weak as the proverbial kitten. some one had covered him with an oilskin. he wondered who?

it came as a nasty shock to see poor old preston stretched alongside, with one half of his face looking as if it had been battered in. the acting chief looked at peter, but there was no recognition in the look.

"hello, old man!" exclaimed mostyn. "how goes it?"

the greeting was ignored. preston made an effort to place his hand on his head. the attempt failed. with a groan the acting chief rolled over on his side.

"water!" he gasped feebly.

peter dragged the beaker from under the stern bench and moistened the injured man's lips. his own throat felt dry and parched, but already he realized the absolute necessity for husbanding the precious fluid.

preston sighed and closed his eyes. for the time being peter could do nothing more for the badly injured acting chief.

the wireless officer was feeling far too "groggy on his pins" to stand. supporting himself by the gunwale, he knelt up and scanned the horizon. the wind was fresh and the sea fairly high, though regular. the boat, not under control, was driving broadside on to the wind, her high freeboard and comparatively light load allowing her to scud at quite a steady rate. also, owing to the same circumstances, she rode the seas well, only an occasional flick of spray finding its way inboard.

the rain had ceased during the night, but the bottom-boards were awash. the masts and sails were still rolled up and stowed in a painted canvas cover. beside them was a bundle of oars, and on top of them a rudder.

the fact that the boat was not under control stirred peter to action. having made sure that none of the rest of the west barbican's boats was in sight, he aroused the inert lascars.

"hai! hai!" he shouted. "aft, you hands, and set sail."

the men showed no great haste to execute the command.

"where go? india?" asked one.

"lay aft, both of you," exclaimed peter sternly, although in his weak state he found himself asking how he could enforce obedience. he knew enough of the native temperament to realize that if he gave a command and failed to see it carried out, his authority over the lascars was as good as gone for ever.

"me tired," objected the other. "no pani, no padi."

without another word mostyn produced and ostentatiously displayed his automatic. there were great odds against its efficacy, after being submerged for several hours. the cartridges were supposed to be watertight, and were well greased. he had little fear on that score. the difficulty lay in the fact that the delicate mechanism of the pistol might have been deranged through the action of the salt water.

he felt confident that he could rely upon mahmed. the boy was a devoted servant, and true to his salt. and peter had no doubt about miss baird's ability to aid him if the lascars proved openly mutinous. for the present preston was out of the running, while mrs. shallop was literally and figuratively a "passenger".

greatly to mostyn's relief the sight of the automatic acted like an electric shock upon the two lascars. with great agility and speed they began casting off the sail-cover and setting up the heavy mast.

while they were hoisting the lug-sail mahmed shipped the rudder, and soon the boat was slipping along before the breeze.

peter had been puzzling over the course for some considerable time. against the westerly breeze he knew that days might elapse before the boat made the mozambique coast. being light and not provided with a centre-board, she was unable to sail at all close to the wind. in fact, it was doubtful whether she would make to windward at all. on the other hand, she would run well, and, with the knowledge that the island of madagascar was somewhere under his lee—it might be anything between two hundred and four hundred miles—mostyn decided that the best chance lay in making for it. there was, of course, a great possibility of several vessels being in the vicinity. if the boat were sighted, so much the better. if not—well, they would have to "stick it out" on very short rations.

a thorough search in the after locker disclosed the fact that there was an airtight tin containing fourteen pounds of biscuits, another lantern and a pound of tallow candles, a lead-line, some rusty fishing hooks and lines (relics of a long-forgotten fishing expedition), a hatchet, grass rope, and half a dozen signal rockets. elsewhere in the boat were a small compass, a water-beaker about three-quarters full, spare oars, baler, boat-hook, grapnel, and a jib and mizzen sails, besides the lug that had already been set.

the baler had been nearly filled with rain-water during the night, but the lascars had drunk every drop. peter, of course, was ignorant of this, and when he served out a small quantity all round the lascars must have congratulated themselves on their astuteness.

the tin of biscuits was then broached, and one biscuit handed to each person in the boat. preston munched his ravenously, although every movement of his jaw caused him intense agony. he was still lightheaded, muttering incoherently about taking over the middle watch.

olive was hungry and ate the "hard tack" with zest, but mrs. shallop pettishly declined her share as being unfit for a lady to eat. she even began her now well-known speech of self-advertisement, when peter cut her short.

"i can offer you nothing better," he said curtly. "i would advise you to keep it, because you'll want it badly before long. and please understand there must be no grumbling. it has a bad effect upon the lascars."

"surely i can talk if i want to?" protested the woman.

"within limits, yes," replied mostyn. "but i would point out that it would be far better if you did something useful. there's preston, for instance, he requires pretty constant attention."

"oh, miss baird can see to him," declared mrs. shallop. "she's younger than i am."

"considering miss baird had three cases on her hands during the night—you, preston, and myself—i think she's done more than her fair share," said peter, and, filled with disgust, he turned to the helm, which mahmed had temporarily taken.

he could see olive's face flush under the selfish rudeness of the parvenue, but the girl, repressing her impulse to reply heatedly, remained silent.

a stiff glass of brandy, and the sound sleep resulting from it, had kept mrs. shallop in ignorance of her narrow escape from death in the disaster to the west barbican. she was in the habit of consuming the contents of a bottle of strong waters per week. "by dr. selwyn's orders," she would explain. "he says i must have it, and it must be the very best." and selwyn was never more astonished than when he heard of the prescription that was attributed to him. when the ship shook under the explosion a steward had rushed to mrs. shallop's cabin, and, unceremoniously dragging that lady from her bunk, had carried her along the alleyway to the companion ladder. here the lady promptly collapsed. meanwhile mr. shallop, who had been in the smoking-room, had gone on deck. in the darkness he saw nothing of his wife, and concluded that she was amongst the first to get away in the boats. at which he congratulated himself. he was spared the ordeal of being cooped up with mrs. shallop, who would to a certainty vent her anger upon him for having taken the sea voyage, although it was entirely on her suggestion that the ill-assorted couple booked passages on the s.s. west barbican.

"this isn't going to be a picnic, i can see," soliloquized peter, as he glanced to wind'ard. "it's up to me to do something now. i wonder if the old man would have logged me for this? decent old chap, bullock. i suppose he's gone."

mostyn was steering due east by compass. he had no idea of the magnetic variation in this part of the indian ocean, neither had he any knowledge of the deviation of that particular compass. by steering due east he was hoping to effect a landing between the north and south of madagascar—a fairly generous target of 1000 miles in length.

it was responsibility with a vengeance. not only had the wireless officer to take over executive duties; he had to navigate the boat, regulate the supply of food and water, and maintain discipline until such times as preston recovered and was able to take command. judging by the injured man's appearance that day was still very remote.

meanwhile peter mostyn, hiked by fate into the joys and difficulties of command, accepted the situation with typical british grit.

"i'll just carry on and make the best of it," he decided. "it won't be for want of trying if i don't get the boat safely to shore."