‘What are we going to do?’ said Ken—­’Try for the Fountain landing?’

’Might as well, I suppose.  Any chance of picking up another boat, d’ye think?’

‘Pretty slim, I fancy,’ answered Ken.  ’There are sure to be sentries there.  You see, it’s the sort of place where our people might attempt a landing.’

[Illustration:  ’"She’s leaking like a sieve."’]

‘Could we try for the other side?’ suggested Roy.

‘Out of the question,’ said Ken.  ’We’re opposite Sari Siglar Bay.  The Straits are nearly three miles wide here.’

Roy gave a short laugh.  ’Looks as if we should have to swim for it after all,’ he said.  ’Well, the only thing is to keep going until she sinks under us.  Then we must scramble ashore and take our chances.’

He pulled on again, and Ken betook himself to his everlasting task of baling.  He was mortally tired and desperately sleepy.  His eyes almost closed as he dipped and dipped in the salt water which, in spite of all his efforts, grew steadily deeper in the bottom of the boat.  The lower she sank, the more quickly the water spurted in.  Each minute that passed brought the inevitable end closer.

Once he glanced up to see, if possible, where they were.  To the right tall black cliffs towered against the night sky, to the left the stars twinkled in the ripples of the deep and wide Straits.

Roy pulled like a machine, but the weight of water made his efforts almost useless.  The boat sogged slowly forward like a dead thing.

‘She won’t last another five minutes,’ said Ken.

‘And there’s no landing place, old chap.  We’re right up against it.’

‘Tell you what there is, though,’ said Ken keenly.  ’There’s a craft of some sort out there.  Don’t you hear her engines?’

Roy stopped pulling a moment.  In the silence a faint chug, chug reached their ears.

‘What do you think she is—­one of our warships?’ he asked in a whisper.

’Haven’t a notion.  But she’s probably British or French.  The Turks haven’t got much in the way of craft—­at least not this side of Gallipoli.’

‘Then I vote for trying to make her,’ said Roy.  ‘Right you are,’ Ken answered, and began baling harder than ever Roy, pulling on his left-hand oar, got the boat round, and made a last spurt in the direction of the sound.

It seemed a very forlorn hope.  They could not even see the craft—­whatever she was—­and their boat manifestly had but a short time to live.  If she sank out in mid-straits there was no earthly chance of reaching the shore.  Drowning was certain.

Three minutes passed.  The water in the boat was nearly knee deep.  Pull as he might, Roy could hardly keep her moving.  Ken raised his head and peered out through the gloom.

‘I see her,’ he said with sudden eagerness.  He pointed as he spoke to a dim shape not more than a couple of hundred yards away.