The Old Man was fighting a tough battle. With Preston and Anstey he was extricating his command from a perilous situation, where skilful seamanship alone could regain control of the helm without allowing the vessel to wallow helplessly in the fiery sea. Putting the ship ahead and astern alternately the Old Man allowed her head to pay off under the force of the wind until he saw a chance of turning. Then, with a grunt of supreme satisfaction, he rang for full speed ahead. Five minutes later the _West Barbican_, clear of the oil-calmed water, was rolling in the tempestuous seas. "Carry on, Mr. Anstey," he ordered. "Lay her on her old course." He turned abruptly on his heel, intending to see how the survivors of the tanker were faring. As he swung round he noticed Peter standing under the lee of the wireless cabin. "Mr. Mostyn!" "Sir?" "How many survivors?" Peter told him. "A smart bit of work of yours, Mr. Mostyn, but--oh, very well, go below and turn in. I'll see you in the morning." The Wireless Officer obeyed only too gladly. As he washed the grime from his face he reflected that, thanks to the damaged aerial, he would have an uninterrupted watch below. For a long time he lay awake in his bunk. It was not the heavy rolling that was responsible for his sleeplessness. The whole of the night's adventure passed in review, its horrors intensified in retrospect. It was not until dawn was breaking that he fell into a fitful slumber. Meanwhile the skipper had his hands full. In the absence of a doctor he and the purser were attending to the helpless survivors of the tanker. Of the seven removed from the boat only two were conscious, and one of the pair had a compound fracture of the right leg. His companion was able to give an account of the disaster. The vessel was the American-owned oil-tanker _Bivalve_ of and from New York for Hull. She had struck the two drifting mines, concerning the presence of which a general wireless message had been sent out. Both exploded amidships, one on either side, about fifty feet for'ard of the engine-room, which in vessels of the _Bivalve's_ type are well aft. Within a few minutes the petroleum tanks exploded, and the sinking ship became a raging furnace. Two boats were lowered, but of the fate of the second the narrator had no knowledge. He remembered pulling desperately at an oar until the smoke cloud overwhelmed the boat. Then, gasping frantically for breath, he lost consciousness until he found himself on board the _West Barbican_. At eight bells (8 a.m.) Peter was roused from his slumbers. A glance through the now open scuttle showed him that the ship was berthed alongside a wharf, and that the stevedores were already getting busy. A huge crane was transporting long, timber-protected pieces of steelwork into the _West Barbican's_ No. 1 hold.