For a brief instant the danger and suddenness of the catastrophe were hardly realized. Assembled for a pageant the passengers were horrified into silence by the unexpected turn of events. Then a woman shrieked, and the spell was broken. Almost every one of the occupants of the deck-chairs stood up and rushed to the side, shouting as if noise would help the two men struggling for their lives.

The lascars too seemed incapable of action. They flocked to the side of the ship, and gazed seemingly without emotion into the deep-blue water.

At the shout of "Man overboard!" raised by Anstey, the officer of the watch, Captain Bullock unceremoniously dashed between the groups of bewildered passengers and gained the bridge. Even in his haste his brain was solving a ready problem. Who was to go away in the lifeboat? The Acting Chief was struggling for dear life in the "ditch". He could swim well, as the Old Man knew, but after his strenuous wrestling bout had he sufficient strength to keep afloat until picked up? Anstey, as officer on duty, could not leave the bridge. There was one executive officer short of the ship\'s complement, and as far as Captain Bullock was aware, none of the engineers off duty was capable of managing a boat, while a bungler at the tiller meant not only delay but probably failure.

Fortunately the secuni in the wheelhouse had acted promptly, putting the helm over to port in order to swing the ship\'s stern clear of the men in the ditch, and thus avoid the danger of their being cut to pieces by the propeller. They were now a good four hundred yards astern, while between them and the ship was a line of lifebuoys thrown with fine indiscrimination by the passengers. The nearest lifebuoy to the two exhausted men was at least a hundred yards away.

During the interrupted revels the West Barbican had reduced speed, and already Anstey had rung down for "Stop".

"Let go the lifeboat—away lifeboat\'s crew," bawled the Old Man, as he moved the telegraph indicator to full speed astern; then, leaning over the bridge rails, he hailed a grotesquely garbed figure standing motionless and alert on the temporary dais:

"Mr. Mostyn: take charge of the lifeboat."

With a feeling of elation Peter rushed to carry out the order. This time there was no question of it. The Old Man had spoken. It was a tribute to the Wireless Officer\'s capabilities in a province that was not strictly his own.

Urged by the shrill cries of the serang and tindal of the watch the lascars had now formed up on the boat-deck. Some had then their places in the out-swung boat, while others stood by the falls ready to lower away.

Although the engines had been going full speed astern the West Barbican was still forging ahead when Peter jumped into the stern-sheets of the lifeboat. She was still carrying way when the falls were disengaged and the boat pushed off from the ship\'s side.

"Soft job this," soliloquized Mostyn. "The sea\'s calm, the water\'s warm, and old Preston and the other fellow have got hold of the lifebuoy. Tumbling into the ditch under these conditions is a picnic—Hello, though—is it?"

*****

To say the least of it, Preston was both surprised and indignant when he found himself hurtling through space in the vice-like grip of his antagonist. It was poor consolation to know that there was someone else in the same predicament. What was particularly galling was the fact that he, a veteran officer of the Mercantile Marine, should be such an ass as to skylark and then fall overboard in so doing.

These thoughts flashed through his mind during the time he dropped through thirty odd feet of space between the deck of the ship and the surface of the water. Then the terrific impact with the Atlantic Ocean abruptly ended his reveries of self-reproach.

To a certain extent it was fortunate that the two men remained interlocked during their fall. Hunched up after the manner of a diver doing a "honey-pot" from a spring-board they got off comparatively lightly, although the impact was fairly severe, and had the effect of depriving them of most of the scanty breath left after their strenuous encounter.

"The blighter will grip like grim death," thought Preston, as he sank fathoms down; "I\'ll have a deuce of a job to shake him off."

But the sudden immersion had the unexpected result that the men mutually released their grip. Perhaps it was that both were good swimmers and realized that the quickest way to refill their lungs with air was to strike out for the surface.

They emerged almost simultaneously, gasping and spluttering.

"Not that way!" exclaimed Preston breathlessly, as his companion in misfortune began striking out for the ship\'s side. "Mind the prop."

The other realized the danger of being caught by the swiftly moving blades of the screw, but even then it was only the prompt action of the secuni at the wheel that saved him from being drawn into the vortex.

"Nothing to worry about," spluttered Preston, as the two bobbed like corks in the quartering wave. "We\'ll be picked up all right. My aunt! Look at them! Well, they might have chucked them on our heads."

He referred to the injudicious volley of lifebuoys. Although the ship was carrying way the passengers were still engaged in dumping the Company\'s property into the sea.

His companion laughed. Regaining his breath he was also regaining his boisterous spirits, although he had to admit that the struggle, followed by a thirty-odd foot fall had severely taxed his splendid brawn and muscle.

"You don\'t look in your element, Preston," he remarked, "even though you are Father Neptune."

"Was," corrected the absentee Acting Chief Officer, proceeding to relieve himself of the encumbrance of his scanty garb of trailing seaweed and oyster-shells. "Come on; we may as well strike out for the nearest of that line of lifebuoys. Breast stroke. There\'s no great hurry, and it\'s less tiring."

Although the passenger had gone overboard wearing boxing-gloves, that had remained on his hands despite his wrestling bout, one had disappeared during his submergence. Preston remarked on it.

"Yes," rejoined the other. "Might just as well hang on to this one, although one\'s not much use. Cost me a couple of Bradbury\'s just before we left England. I say, do you mind telling me this: I declare I\'ve crossed the Line without being initiated.............