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 comm............