But the girl's wish was not to be fulfilled. If the shark had been chasing the flying fish he no longer did so. Perhaps he scented promising and more satisfying tare, for without any apparent effort he began to follow the boat, rarely increasing or decreasing the distance.

"Hang the shark," exclaimed Peter. "Here, Olive, is a chance to show what a good shot you are."

He handed the girl his automatic. Without hesitation Olive took the somewhat complicated weapon. Peter noted, with a certain degree of satisfaction, that she handled it fearlessly, and at the same time with proper caution. He had no cause to duck his head because of the muzzle pointing in his direction.

"Don't forget to release the safety-catch," he said.

"I've done so already," rejoined Olive, pulling back the mechanism that performed the double action of c.o.c.king the pistol and inserting a cartridge into the breech.

It was not an easy target, even at twenty yards. Not only was the boat yawing, but the dorsal fin of the shark was constantly on the move.

The pistol cracked. Mostyn, intent upon preventing the boat from gybing, had no opportunity of seeing the result of the shot. The girl, replacing the safety catch, handed the weapon back to its owner.

"Missed it, I'm afraid," she said. "But there's one good thing--the shark's disappeared."

"Scared stiff, if not hit," rejoined Peter. "Do you mind hanging on to the tiller, while I clean out the barrel?"

The day wore on. At six o'clock Peter roused one of the lascars, and told him to take on for a couple of hours. Already the tent had been rigged amidships, while the jib--useless, or nearly so, while running--had been employed as a sun-screen for Preston.

The sun sank to rest, its slanting rays turning the hitherto blue sea into a pool of liquid, ruddy fire, that gave place to a spangled carpet of indigo as the long undulations reflected the starlight. Away in the west the young moon was on the point of setting. It was the sort of sub-tropical evening that made the discomfort of the open boat pale by its soothing influence.

At eight Peter "took over". He had no desire for sleep, and was quite content to keep watch until relieved at dawn by one of the lascars; but he was somewhat surprised to find that Olive was likewise disinclined to turn in.

They watched the crescent moon dip behind the horizon; they saw the stars pale as a slight mist rose from the waters of the Indian Ocean, and the starlight give place to a darkness broken only by the feeble rays of the binnacle lamp.

By this time the wind had dropped to a gentle breeze on the port quarter, and there was no longer any risk of gybing. The erratic movement of the dead run had given way to the steadier "full and bye", with sufficient "kick" in the helm to make steering a pleasure rather than a monotonous routine.

Suddenly the boat quivered and heeled over to starboard. The shock was sufficient to rouse the sleepers.

"Aground!" exclaimed Olive.

Peter put the helm down. The boat responded instantly to the action of the rudder.

"No," he replied. "We've hit something. Wreckage, perhaps."

"It's a fish!" declared the girl, as with a trail of phosph.o.r.escence a huge object darted under the keel and disappeared in the darkness.

"That shark."

"Or another one," rejoined Peter. "There's one blessing: it isn't a whale. Chup rao!" he called out to the jabbering lascars.

In two or three minutes the awakened members of the boat's crew had relapsed into slumber. Peter swung the boat back on her course, and handed the tiller to the girl.

"I'll have a cigarette, if you don't mind," he said.

"And one for me, old thing, while you are about it," added a ba.s.s voice from the stern-sheets.

"By Jove, Preston, I thought you were sound asleep," remarked Peter, as he placed a cigarette to the Acting Chief's lips.

"Keeping an eye on you, old thing," retorted Preston, with brutal candour, then in a lower tone he added.

"Don't say a word to the girl, but I believe we've sprung a leak. Hear that? It's not the water lapping the boat's sides. It's water trickling in fairly fast. Put a lascar on with the baler. That ought to keep it under until we can see what's wrong."

"Right-o," rejoined Mostyn.

He began to make his way for'ard, moving cautiously past the tent in which Mrs. Shallop was breathing stertorously. But before he could get to the nearest of the three Indians a wild shriek rent the air.

For the moment Peter was under the mistaken impression that he had trodden upon the sleeping form of Mrs. Shallop, but his fears on that score were corrected by the lady exclaiming:

"We're sinking. I'm in the water. Let me out! Let me out!"

It was some time before the Wireless Officer could release the woman.

She had laced the flap of the improvised tent from the inside, finishing up with a wondrous and intricate knot. In the darkness the task was even more difficult. Peter solved it by wrenching one side of the canvas away from the gunwale, and was rewarded by being capsized by the impact of Mrs. Shallop's ponderous and decidedly moist figure.

Meanwhile Mahmed, acting upon his own initiative, had lighted the lamp.

By the uncertain light Peter found that his fears were realized. Water was spurting in through a rent in the canvas patch on the gar-board strake.

A long, pointed object attracted his attention. It was the beak of a large sword-fish. The creature had come into violent contact with the boat, driving the formidable "sword" completely through the temporary planking, two thicknesses of heavy canvas, and the intervening padding of clay. The bone had broken off short, but the worst of the business was that the sudden wrench had split the piece of elm forming the outside of the patch, and through the long narrow orifice thus made, gallons of the Indian Ocean were pouring into the boat.

Desperately Peter strove to wrench the sword clear of the hole. It swayed easily enough, but no amount of force at the Wireless Officer's command enabled him to remove the long, tapering horn.

"Bale away!" he exclaimed to the lascars, who were inertly watching their sahib's efforts to free the swordfish's formidable spike. "Bale, or we'll sink."

"If you can't pull it out, push it back, old son," exclaimed Preston.

Glancing up, Peter found the Acting Chief in a sitting position, supporting himself with one hand grasping the after thwart.

Mostyn acted upon the advice, but he proceeded warily. It was a fairly easy matter to knock out the sword with a metal crutch--it was merely driving out an elongated wedge--but the question arose whether any display of force would prise the temporary planking from its fastenings.

At last to his satisfaction he felt the h.o.r.n.y spike giving. After that it moved easily. Peter pushed its point completely clear of the boat, but the next instant the water poured in with redoubled violence, a phosph.o.r.escent waterspout rising a good eight or ten inches above the kelson.

Seizing a piece of canvas Peter wedged it into the gaping hole. The inflow was appreciably checked, but in order to withstand the pressure it was necessary for some one to hold the "stopper" in position, until repairs of a more substantial nature could be effected.

Calling to one of the lascars, Peter bade him carry on with the plugging process.

Hot, wellnigh breathless, and spent with his exertions, Peter sat up.

He glanced aft. The feeble light from the binnacle showed him that Olive was at the helm, calm and collected. Throughout the anxious five minutes she had kept the boat on her course with the skill of a master-mind--a vivid contrast to the hysterical woman whose incapacity in a tight corner belied her oft-repeated statement as to her naval forbears.

And during that five minutes the breeze had freshened considerably.

Already the seas were breaking viciously, their white crests showing ominously in the darkness. Another peril faced the crew. Could the badly strained and leaking boat withstand the onslaught of the threatened storm?

CHAPTER x.x.xI

Picked up at Sea

"I'll attend to the leak, Peter," volunteered Olive. "That will leave you free to shorten sail."