Whether they were dead or alive Mostyn knew not. All he could do was to have the seemingly inanimate bodies transhipped, and then return to the _West Barbican_--if he could. Working like men possessed, four of the lascars unceremoniously bundled the bodies into the lifeboat. Then, pushing off, they resumed their oars, pulling desperately for the ship, which was now gathering sternway at a distance of a cable's length. For the first time Mostyn realized the extreme gravity of the situation. The ship was now gathering sternway, drifting rapidly to lee'ard the while. The churning of her propeller had caused a large patch of burning oil to still further contract the narrow fairway between the ship and the boat. Peter knew full well that he and the boat's crew stood less than a dog's chance should the fiery sea cut them off. He was also aware of the great difficulty of being picked up by the ship, since the latter had herself to be constantly manoeuvring to avoid contact with the fire. Even if the lifeboat escaped the flames, there arose the danger of her being crushed by her parent. In that case there would be little or no chance of swimming in the thick layer of oil that had not as yet become ignited. It was touch and go. Dazzled by the glare, partly stifled by the thick smoke, and scorched by the hot, raging wind, Peter all but lost his bearings. A momentary dispersal of the smoke showed him the hull of the _West Barbican_ less than four boats' lengths away. "Boat oars!" The now thoroughly scared lascars obeyed very hurriedly. The bowman grasped and engaged the for'ard falls, pulping one of his fingers in the operation. Almost simultaneously the lower block of the after falls was hooked on, and with a disconcerting jerk the lifeboat rose clear of the water. Only by a few seconds had she won through. Before the boat was hoisted home the sea beneath her was covered with crackling, spluttering flames. CHAPTER VII "Logged" Peter Mostyn's chief desire upon regaining the deck was to go below and get something to drink. Now that the immediate danger was over, his throat was burning like a lime-kiln, and his head was buzzing as if he had taken an overdose of quinine. Slipping off his lifebelt--he had donned it mechanically on rushing to the boat, although in the circumstances the advantages of wearing a lifebelt were of a negative order--Peter returned to the bridge, keeping discreetly in the background.