‘Well, we’ve no time to waste,’ said the officer impatiently.  ’Tell him to clear out as quick as he can.  I’m not going to waste shells on that thing.  A charge of gun-cotton in her hold is all she’s worth.’

With much bad language, the Turkish skipper cleared off, and the three boats containing himself and his crew pulled away in the direction of the land, which was just visible on the almost before the words left the commander’s lips, and pulling like fury for the steamer.

‘Make for the bows,’ he heard Strang shout, and he did so.

The distance was nothing—­merely a couple of hundred yards.  He glanced round over his shoulder, and saw the rusty bows towering above him—­saw, too, to his intense relief, that the old man had realised that he was to be rescued and was moving forward.

Ken shipped his sculls.  The dinghy glided in under the tall side of the tramp.  Ken stood up, and looked round for a rope.  He could not see one.  There seemed no way of climbing the perpendicular side of the vessel, yet it was quite clear that the old man could not get down unaided.

Ken saw his face appear over the rail.  A gasp of astonishment came from his lips.

‘Othman!’ he exclaimed.  ‘It’s Othman Pacha!’

It was Othman Pacha, his old friend, the very man who had saved him when his father was arrested.  How had he come here?  How was it he had been left alone to perish by the crew of the steamer?  What did it all mean?  These and a dozen other thoughts darted through Ken’s brain with the swiftness of a lightning flash.  But above them all came the desperate resolve to save the old man at all costs.

Othman could do nothing to help himself.  That was clear on the face of it.  Old and apparently ill, he seemed quite confused and helpless.

Just above his head Ken saw an open port.  Standing on the thwart he just managed to reach it.  With a desperate effort he drew himself up, and succeeded in getting foothold on the lower rim.  There was no way of securing the boat.  He had to trust to luck that she would remain where he had left her.

Quickly yet cautiously he raised himself again, and his clutching fingers met the stays of the foremast.  Another big pull, and he was level with the rail.

The old Turk stood staring at him, but did not seem to recognise him, and naturally Ken did not wait to explain.  Every instant he expected to see the decks burst upwards, and the whole ship fly to pieces.  He knew that it could be only a matter of seconds before the explosion took place.

A rope—­that was what he wanted most just at that moment, and luckily he had not far to go for one.  An untidy coil of line lay close beside the forward hatch.

He sprang for it, whipped it up, and in a trice had put a loop in it, and made a double bight around Othman’s body.

‘Over you go, Pacha!’ he said with a sharpness which at last reached the muddled brains of the poor old Turk.