‘The brutes!’ he muttered.

‘We must get hold of the dinghy again.  It’s our one chance,’ said Ken.  ‘Here, let me help you with that chap.’

‘Why, it’s Gill,’ he exclaimed, as he caught the man by the other arm, and started paddling hard towards the dinghy, which, caught in the current, was drifting steadily away southwards.

It was at this moment that the searchlight switched suddenly off.  Darkness shut down around them, leaving nothing in sight but the overturned boat, a dim bulk among the dull ripples.

Roy was almost done as the result of the exertions he had made in holding up Gill, and Gill himself weighted them terribly.  For two minutes or more Ken thought they would never reach the boat.

At last they managed it, and then they had only just strength enough left to haul Gill up across it and, each with an arm across the keel, cling and let themselves drift where the current took them.

‘The skipper said it was out of the frying pan into the fire,’ said Roy, with a weak attempt at a laugh.  ‘He wasn’t far out, eh, Ken?’

‘He wasn’t,’ Ken agreed.  ’I say, Roy, he had pluck, hadn’t he?  It took grit to stand by the “Swan” under a fire like that.’

‘It did,’ said Roy.  ‘God rest his soul,’ he added softly.

Silence fell between them.  Ken’s spirits were sinking in spite of his best efforts to keep them up.  The sea was deadly cold, and the boat so small that they were only just able to keep their heads above water.  And they knew, both of them, that their chances of life were not one in a thousand.

They were right out in mid-straits, they were still fully nine miles from the southern entrance, and even if a British warship should come up to see what had happened to the trawlers, the odds were enormous against her people spotting them.

Ken strained his eyes through the gloom, but could neither see nor hear any other craft.  The waters were bare and silent.

‘Roy,’ he said at last, and it was all he could do to keep his teeth from chattering.  ‘Roy, can’t we manage to right the dinghy?’

‘You and I might.  But what about Gill?’

The question was unanswerable.  It would take all their united strength to turn the dinghy over.  And who was to hold Gill meantime?

No, the case was absolutely desperate.  There was nothing for it but to hang on and continue hanging on until at last the deadly cold had done its work, and they dropped off and sank into the darksome depths beneath them.  It was a miserable end, and Ken’s whole soul rebelled against it.

The guns had ceased firing, there were no lights anywhere to be seen, the only sound was the monotonous slap of the ripples against the hull of the overturned boat and—­far in the distance—­the dull mutter of the guns down by Sedd-el-Bahr.

[Illustration:  ’"Hallo!  Hallo!  Who’s that?"’]

Ken felt a dull stupor creeping over him, a curious sense of unreality.  His thoughts began to wander.  So much so that at first he hardly noticed the curious sucking splash which came from the water some little distance to the left.