Just before sunset the wind dropped to a flat calm. Peter took advantage of the practically motionless conditions to employ the fishing-lines that had been discovered in the after locker. The hooks were sharpened by means of the sandpaper fixed to the solitary box of matches in the boat. Small pieces of biscuit, soaked in water and rolled between the finger and thumb, served as bait. The lines were old and far from sound, but might be relied upon to bear a steady strain of about seven pounds.

"Do we fish on the bottom, Mr. Mostyn?" asked Olive facetiously.

"Yes, rather," replied Peter, entering into the jovial spirit. "That is, if your line is long enough. We\'re only about a mile from the nearest land, and that\'s immediately beneath us."

Olive lowered her line steadily. Before she had paid out half of it there was a perceptible jerk and the line slackened.

"I\'ve struck soundings," she reported.

At first Mostyn thought that the girl was still joking, but an exclamation from one of the lascars, who was lowering one of the lines, convinced him that the lead weights had touched something of a solid nature.

Taking Miss Baird\'s line, Peter held it between his extended first and middle fingers. He could distinctly feel the lead trailing over a hard bottom, as the boat was carried along by a slight current.

"Strange," he ejaculated. "We\'re in less than five fathoms. I had no idea that there was a shoal hereabouts."

Steadying himself by the mast, Mostyn stood upon the gunwale and scanned the horizon. North, south, east, and west the aspect was much the same—an unbroken expanse of water, differing in colour according to the bearing. To the east it was sombre, to the west the sea was crimson, as it reflected the gorgeous tints of the setting sun.

"No land in sight," he reported.

The shoal proved to be a good fishing-ground, for, before the short tropical dusk had given place to night, a dozen fair-sized fish, somewhat resembling the herring of northern waters, had been hauled into the boat.

"What is the use of them after all?" inquired Olive. "We can\'t cook them, and raw fish are uneatable."

"Unpalatable, Miss Baird," corrected Peter. "It is just likely that we shall have to eat them. To-morrow we\'ll try curing them in the sun."

"Couldn\'t we fry them over the lamp?" asked the girl, who obviously had not taken kindly to the suggestion that the fish should be sun-cured. She was extremely practical on most points, but she drew the line at dried but otherwise raw herrings.

"You might try cooking for yourself, Miss Baird," said Peter dubiously. "You see, we have to economize in oil almost as much as with water; but I think we can stretch a point in your favour."

"In that case I\'d rather not," rejoined the girl decidedly. "It wouldn\'t be fair to the rest, and there\'s the oil to be taken into consideration. I hadn\'t thought of that."

Having caught sufficient fish for their needs, the anglers hauled in their lines and stowed them away. Peter then shared out half a biscuit apiece and a small quantity of water. This time Mrs. Shallop was not too proud to accept the meagre fare. She ate her portion of biscuit, and even suggested to her companion that if Olive had more than she wanted she could give it to her.

Watches were then set for the night, Mahmed and one of the lascars taking from eight till two, and Peter and the other lascar from two till eight; the time being determined by Miss Baird\'s watch. This meant a long trick, but it was unavoidable. The three natives had been standing easy most of the day, while Peter had had no sound sleep for nearly thirty hours.

"I am not going to sleep in that tent, Mr. Mostyn," declared Olive, with an air of finality, speaking in a low voice. "I\'d much rather curl up on the bottom-boards. It\'s not nearly so stuffy."

"Is it because Mrs. Shallop has been jawing?" asked Peter. "I\'ll tell you what; there\'s a square of spare canvas sufficient to rig you up a shelter between those two thwarts."

"Don\'t bother!" exclaimed Mrs. Shallop, who, when she wanted, was marvellously quick of hearing. "You can have the tent. I\'ll sleep outside."

And, before the astonished Peter and Olive could say anything, Mrs. Shallop snatched up the piece of canvas and went for\'ard.

"She\'s ashamed of herself and is trying to make good, I think," suggested Mostyn. "Well, your pitch is queered, Miss Baird, but there\'s the tent."

Without a word Olive disappeared behind the flap.

Mostyn could rely upon Mahmed to keep his companion "up to scratch", so with an easy mind the Wireless Officer went for\'ard, wrapped himself in his oilskin, and was soon sleeping soundly on the bottom-boards.

He was awakened by Mahmed at the stipulated hour. In his drowsiness it was some moments before he realized where he was, and it rather perplexed him to find his boy shaking him by the shoulder without the customary "Char, sahib".

It was a bright, starlit night. The wind was soft and steady, and the boat was rippling through the water at at least four knots.

Going aft, Mostyn peered at the compass. There was sufficient light to enable the helmsman to steer without having to use the candle-lamp of the binnacle. The course was still sou\'-east, or four points south of the desired direction. It was as close as the boat could sail; even then she made a lot of leeway.

"Not\'ing to report, sahib," declared Mahmed.

"All right," was the rejoinder. "Carry on."

The lascar told off to share Mostyn\'s watch came aft, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

"Me no well, sahib," he said. "Me tink me die."

"Take the wheel," ordered Peter, using the term instead of tiller, since the lascar was well acquainted with the word "wheel".

The man grasped the tiller without another word. His little ruse was a "wash-out", and, finding that his imaginary ailment received no sympathy, he carried on as if nothing had happened.

Mostyn then proceeded to attend to his injured brother-officer, washing his wounds and feeding him with biscuit.

Preston was still very weak, but quite rational in his speech. His prolonged sleep had restored his mental powers, but he was unable to move without assistance.

"What\'s happened, old man?" he inquired. "I\'ve been racking my brains to find out how I got laid out. I remember lowering away the boat, and after that everything\'s a blank."

"You got a smack with the lower block swaying," replied Peter. "At least that\'s what I was told. They didn\'t pick me up for a couple of hours or more after the ship went down."

"And the Old Man?" asked Preston.

The Wireless Officer shook his head sadly.

"\'Fraid he\'s done in," he answered. "When the ship disappeared he was with me on the bridge. I never set eyes on him after that."

"Rough luck," murmured Preston. "His last voyage before he went on the beach with a pension. Sound old chap too, although hard to get on with at times."

"One of the best," declared Mostyn.

There was silence for ............