"It’s had a good try, anyway," rejoined the mate. "Half a dozen deck planks stove in." He held the lantern close to the mysterious object. "Looks like a bloomin’ bath," he continued, "and I’m hanged if there isn’t a whopping big bird in it. Rummiest birdcage I’ve ever set eyes on." The cause of the damage to the _Myrtle’s_ top-hamper and deck planks was Z64’s observation basket. Instead of falling into the sea and decorously sinking to the bottom, as von Sinzig had hoped, the contrivance had struck the only vessel within a radius of a hundred miles. With its head and neck driven completely through the aluminium side of the basket was a large eagle. The huge bird had struck the suspended basket such a tremendous blow that the impact had wrenched away the metal clips securing it to the bottle-screws. "Standin’ an’ looking at the blessed thing won’t clear away this raffle," said the Old Man with asperity. "Set to, all hands. Secure and belay all you can and cut the rest adrift." "Heave this lot overboard, Abe?" questioned the mate, kicking the basket with his sea-boot. "Best let ’un stop awhile," decided the skipper. "Pass a lashing round it. Be sharp with that topmast, or it’ll stove us in." Quickly the mate and a couple of hands cut away the rigging that held the topmast alongside. The heavy spar, which had been bumping heavily against the side, fell clear. The _Myrtle_, no longer impeded by the trailing wreckage, forged rapidly through the water, although she was now carrying foresail, staysail, and outer jib only. By this time day had broken. The snow had ceased falling, and right ahead the pale sun shone in a grey, misty sky. The crew, having made all ship-shape as far as lay in their power, were curiously regarding the cause of the catastrophe. They rather looked upon it as a diversion to break the monotony. "There’s a log of sorts, sir," exclaimed one of the men, fumbling with the leather straps that secured the unused petrol bomb. The missile had been badly dented, but luckily the safety cap was intact. Had it not been so, the bomb would have ignited on impact, and the _Myrtle_, her snow-swept deck notwithstanding, would soon have been enveloped in flames from stem to stern. "Don’t fool around with it, Ted," said another of the crew, who, an R.N.R. man, had seen life and death in the Great War. "It’s a bomb." "Well," observed Captain Prout, "that’s more’n I bargained for. I’ve taken my chances with floating mines, but it’s coming too much of a good thing when these airmen blokes start chucking bombs haphazard-like." "Best pitch the thing overboard," suggested the mate. "No," objected the Old Man. "If we do, we’ve no evidence. Someone’s got to pay for this lash up. Government broad arrow on the thing, too. That fixes it. When we make Hobart I’ll raise Cain or my name’s not Abraham Prout." CHAPTER XVIII--UNDER FIRE