Making his way to the chartroom the Third Officer "laid off" the position of the mines. His rough guess proved to be remarkably accurate. According to the position given, the source of danger was only a few miles from the Outer Dowsing Lightship, and the West Barbican had to pass close to the Outer Dowsing on her course to Brocklington.

Anstey\'s next step was to inform the Captain. The Old Man, a sailor to the backbone, was in the chart-house in a trice, where, after a brief but careful survey of tide-tables and current-drift charts, he was able to determine the approximate position of the floating mines when the ship would be in the immediate vicinity of the light-vessel. Allowing for the set and strength of the tide and the drift caused by the wind, between the time the mines were first sighted and the time when the West Barbican entered the danger-zone, he was able to assert that, if the ship\'s original course were maintained, she would pass at least ten miles to the east\'ard of those most undesirable derelicts.

"I think we\'re O.K., Mr. Anstey," he remarked. "Besides, for all we know the mines might have been exploded by this time. Those naval Johnnies are pretty smart at that sort of thing. Well, carry on. Let me know if there are any supplementary warnings."

The Old Man returned to his cabin, and was soon deep in the pages of a novel; while Anstey resumed his trick, thanking his lucky stars that, unlike Mostyn\'s, his watch was not indefinitely prolonged through the shortcomings of two sea-sick "birds".

Just as darkness set in, the gale was at its height. Clouds of spray flew over the bridge as the old hooker wallowed and nosed her way through the steep, crested waves, for the wind had backed still more and was now dead in her teeth.

Even in the wireless-cabin the noise was terrific. The boats in davits were creaking and groaning, as they strained against their gripes with each disconcerting jerk of the ship. Spray in sheets rattled upon the tightly stretched boat-covers like volleys of small shot, while the monotonous clank-clank of the steam steering-gear, as the secuni (native quartermaster) strove to keep the ship within half a degree of her course, added to the turmoil that penetrated the four steel walls of the cabin.

Vainly Peter tried to concentrate his thoughts on a book. Yet, in spite of the fact that he was wearing telephones clipped to his ears, the hideous clamour refused to be suppressed. Reading under these conditions was out of the question. He put away the book and remained keeping his weary watch, valiantly combating an almost overwhelming desire for sleep.

Suddenly, with a terrific crash, something hit the deck of the flying-bridge immediately above the wireless-cabin. For a moment Peter was under the impression that one of the foremost derricks had carried away and crashed athwart the roof of the cabin.

Soon he discovered the actual cause. The stout wire halliard taking the for\'ard end of the aerial had parted, and the two wires, spreaders, and insulators had fallen on the boat-deck.

Removing the now useless telephones and donning his pilot coat, Mostyn went out into the open, glad of the slight protection from the cutting wind afforded by the canvas bridge-screens and dodgers. Already lascars, in obedience to the shrill shouts of the serang and tindal (native petty officer), had swarmed upon the bridge ready to clear away the debris.

Accompanied by the bos\'un Mostyn made a hasty examination of the damage. The aerials had fortunately fallen clear of the funnel, and, although the for\'ard insulators had been shattered, the drag of the wires had kept the after ones from being dashed against the main topmast.

It was "up to" the Wireless Officer to repair and set up the aerials as soon as possible.

While the lascars were clearing away a spare halliard, Peter began to replace the broken spreader and its insulators. Cut by the keen wind, drenched with the rain and spray, and chilled to the bone in spite of his heavy pilot coat, Mostyn struggled with refractory wires until his benumbed hands were almost raw and hardly capable of getting a grip on the pliers.

It was a hit-or-miss operation. In the circumstances he had no means of testing the insularity of the aerial. He could only hope that, when once more aloft, it would function properly.

With a sigh of relief he completed the final splice and turned to the serang.

"Heave away!" he ordered.

The man gave a shrill order. Instantly the hitherto passive line of lascars handling the slack of the rope broke into activity. Gradually the aerial tautened, as a score of brown-faced, thin-limbed natives tailed on to the hauling part of the wire halliard. Quickly at first, then with gradually diminishing speed, the double line of wire rose from the deck and disappeared from view in the spray-laden darkness of the night, and presently the serang reported that the aerial was close up.

Mostyn returned to his post. Glancing at the clock he noted with astonishment that the task had taken him exactly an hour. Then, replacing the telephones to his ears, he endeavoured to thaw his benumbed fingers in front of the electric-light globe.

Hour after hour passed in monotonous inactivity. The appearance of the devoted Mahmed with a cup of tea and a plate of sandwiches—most of the tea was spilt, and the sandwiches were abundantly salted and moistened in the process of mounting the bridge—proved a welcome diversion.

Just before midnight a second disaster occurred to the aerial. This time the double wires parted, practically simultaneously, about midway between the masts. This point, being almost immediately above the funnel, is always a fruitful source of trouble, owing to the comparatively rapid deterioration set up by the gases from the furnaces.

Repairs, even of a makeshift nature, were for the present out of the question. It was impossible to send men aloft to assist in setting up the wires. No human being could hold on in such a gale, far less perform the intricate task of reeving fresh halliards and wires. All Mostyn could do was to make all secure in the wireless-cabin. He was then free to turn in and enjoy a few hours\' rest, until the ship\'s arrival at Brocklington Dock should afford an opportunity for repairing the damage.

Peter was exchanging a few words with the officer of the watch when the attention of both was attracted by a flash.

"Distress signal!" exclaimed Peter.

"Not vivid enough," rejoined his companion "Might be a rocket from one of the Dowsings—the Inner, most likely. If——"

Another flash, faintly visible through the murk, interrupted Anstey\'s words. For several seconds both men listened intently for the double detonation. None was audible. Distance and the howling of the elements had completely deadened the reports.

Even as they looked a steady pin-prick of reddish light appeared on exactly the same bearing as the previous flashes. For perhaps fifteen seconds it remained constant; then momentarily it grew in volume until a trailing column of ruddy flame, fringed by a wind-torn cloud of smoke, illuminated the distant horizon.

Bringing his night-glasses to bear upon the source of the flames the Third Officer studied the scene. Then, replacing the binoculars, he shouted to his companion:

"Vessel ablaze from end to end. Tanker, I guess. I\'m off to call the Old Man."

Captain Bullock was quickly out of his cabin. He had waited merely to put on his bridge-coat over his pyjamas and thrust his bare feet into a huge pair of sea-boots. He was one of those powerfully framed, tough men for whom the sudden change of temperature had no terrors and few discomforts.

Shouting a hoarse yet unmistakable order to the secum at the wheel, and ringing down to the engine-room for increased speed, Captain Bullock waited until the West Barbican had steadied on her new course, then he turned to the Third Officer.

"She\'s a tanker, right enough, Anstey. Got it properly in the neck. See that the boats are cleared away, although I\'m afraid there\'s precious little chance of using them in this sea. I\'m off to shift into thicker togs."

In five minutes the Old Man returned. By this time the West Barbican, making a good twelve and a half knots against the head wind and sea, had got within a couple of miles of the doomed vessel.

Already she was well down by the head, and blazing furiously from stem to stern. To windward of her the seas were breaking heavily against the hull of the burning ship. Already she had lost way and was drifting broadside on to the wind. Cascades of water pouring over her listing deck had no effect in quenching the flames but merely raised enormous clouds of steam to mingle with the flame-tinged, oily smoke. To leeward the sea was calm for almost a mile, owing to the liberation of the oil. And not only was it calm: it was a placid lake of fire, as the floating, highly inflammable coating of petroleum burnt furiously in half a dozen detached areas.

"See any signs of a boat?" demanded the Old Man.

"No, sir," replied Anstey.

"Thought not," was the rejoinder. "A boat would be swamped to wind\'ard, and burnt to a cinder to lee\'ard. Doubt even whether the poor fellows had a chance to lower away—— What\'s that on our port bow? By heavens, Anstey, it\'s a boat!"

Both men levelled their binoculars. Mostyn, keeping discreetly in the background, made use of the chartroom telescope.

Silhouetted against the glare was a ship\'s boat. There were people in her, but they were making no apparent effort to draw away from the danger zone. Rising and falling on the long, oily swell, the frail craft was midway between two patches of fiercely burning oil that threatened to converge and destroy the boat and its human freight.

"We\'ll have to risk it, Anstey," decided the Old Man, as he rang for half speed. "I only hope the lascars\'ll stick it. I\'m going to take the old hooker between those patches of burning oil. We\'ll try towing the boat clear. If that fails we\'ll have to lower one of our own boats. Pass the word for the serang to stand by to heave a line, and then give an eye to the secuni. If he runs the ship into either of those patches it\'ll be a serious matter."

"Ay, ay, sir."

Ringing for stop, Captain Bullock knew that there was sufficient way upon the ship to enable her to close the boat without the former being out of control. Allowance had also to be made for the wind, which, owing to the alteration of course, was now two points on the starboard bow.

The heat was now quite perceptible, while at intervals wisps of black, suffocating smoke swept to lee\'ard, completely enveloping the West Barbican. On either side of her were expanses of burning oil, bubbling and popping in a series of miniature explosions, as the heated water beneath the oil vapourized and blew out through the covering layer of burning viscous liquid.

Right in the centre of the steadily decreasing avenue of unlighted oil lay the boat. Two cables\' lengths beyond, and now a glowing mass of white-hot metal, lay the burning tanker, awash for\'ard and with her propeller showing clear above the agitated water.

Admirably manoeuvred and conned by the Old Man, the West Barbican drew near the tanker\'s boat. Slowly she passed within heaving distance. The now excited lascars heaved lines, several of which fell short. Two at least dropped athwart the boat, but no attempt was made on the part of her crew to secure them. The luckless men were either dead or else rendered insensible by the hot, suffocating air.

The ship had now lost way. Her head was beginning to pay off. It was necessary to go ahead in order to regain steerage way; but, at the same time, if the work of rescue were to be consummated, it would be necessary to make use of one of the West Barbican\'s boats.

"Lower away!" roared the Old Man.

At that moment the tanker disappeared beneath the surface. The tower of flame that enveloped her died down to a mere flicker, completely outclassed by the glare of a dozen distinct patches of fiercely burning oil.

The lascars manning the falls hesitated, while their comrades in the boat showed signs of panic. In the confusion they noticed that, unaccountably there was no officer on board the lifeboat.

Mostyn was one of those men who in moments of danger are prone to act independently—they simply cannot remain passive spectators when there is work to be done. It was no business of the Wireless Officer to go away in the boats. His duty was to stay by the wireless gear. But in this case Peter knew that he could do nothing in the cabin with the aerial out of action. He could be of use in the boat, to take command and steady the decidedly "jumpy" Asiatics.

The overwhelming instinct to bear a hand seized him in an instant. Running aft to where the lifeboat swung outboard he leapt into the stern-sheets, grasped the yoke lines, and shouted to the tindal to lower away. The man, seeing that a sahib was in the boat but not recognizing who he was, gave the word to the lascars manning the falls, and the boat was lowered rapidly and evenly.

Mostyn had a momentary vision of the lighted scuttles slipping upwards as the boat dropped down past the ship\'s side. Then with a sharp flop the lifeboat struck the oily surface. Simultaneously the lower blocks of the falls disengaged, and the boat began to drift astern.

"Give way!" ordered Peter.

The lascars, trained to obey commands issued in English, acted smartly. With the presence of a sahib in the lifeboat their fears, if not entirely banished, were cloaked by the sense of discipline.

"Pull starboard; back port."

The lifeboat turned in almost her own length.

Already the steadily converging patches of flames justified this order. To turn under the use of the helm alone would bring the boat in contact with the oil-fired water.

"Together—way \'nough—in bow."

In five minutes from the time Peter had taken his place in the stern-sheets the two boats were gunwale to gunwale. In the tanker\'s whaler were seven human forms huddled in weird postures, either on the bottom-boards or across the thwarts.

Whether they were dead or alive Mostyn knew not. All he could do was to have the seemingly inanimate bodies transhipped, and then return to the West Barbican—if he could.

Working like men possessed, four of the lascars unceremoniously bundled the bodies into the lifeboat. Then, pushing off, they resumed their oars, pulling desperately for the ship, which was now gathering sternway at a distance of a cable\'s length.

For the first time Mostyn realized the extreme gravity of the situation. The ship was now gathering sternway, drifting rapidly to lee\'ard the while. The churning of her propeller had caused a large patch of burning oil to still further contract the narrow fairway between the ship and the boat.

Peter knew full well that he and the boat\'s crew stood less than a dog\'s chance should the fiery sea cut them off. He was also aware of the great difficulty of being picked up by the ship, since the latter had herself to be constantly manoeuvring to avoid contact with the fire. Even if the lifeboat escaped the flames, there arose the danger of her being crushed by her parent. In that case there would be little or no chance of swimming in the thick layer of oil that had not as yet become ignited.

It was touch and go. Dazzled by the glare, partly stifled by the thick smoke, and scorched by the hot, raging wind, Peter all but lost his bearings. A momentary dispersal of the smoke showed him the hull of the West Barbican less than four boats\' lengths away.

"Boat oars!"

The now thoroughly scared lascars obeyed very hurriedly. The bowman grasped and engaged the for\'ard falls, pulping one of his fingers in the operation. Almost simultaneously the lower block of the after falls was hooked on, and with a disconcerting jerk the lifeboat rose clear of the water.

Only by a few seconds had she won through. Before the boat was hoisted home the sea beneath her was covered with crackling, spluttering flames.