The girl was sleeping on the bottom-boards, her head pillowed on a lifebelt. On the next thwart sat Mrs. Shallop, looking extremely dishevelled, with her black hair streaming in the wind. For once she was silent. On recovering consciousness she had grumbled considerably. Now there was no one to listen to her complaints. Peter had been asleep; Olive was still slumbering. Preston, although awake, was decidedly light-headed. As for Mahmed and the two lascars, they were huddled together in the bows awaiting the appearance of the sun with its beneficent warmth. Peter sat up wonderingly. His head swam a little, and he felt as weak as the proverbial kitten. Some one had covered him with an oilskin. He wondered who? It came as a nasty shock to see poor old Preston stretched alongside, with one half of his face looking as if it had been battered in. The Acting Chief looked at Peter, but there was no recognition in the look. "Hello, old man!" exclaimed Mostyn. "How goes it?" The greeting was ignored. Preston made an effort to place his hand on his head. The attempt failed. With a groan the Acting Chief rolled over on his side. "Water!" he gasped feebly. Peter dragged the beaker from under the stern bench and moistened the injured man's lips. His own throat felt dry and parched, but already he realized the absolute necessity for husbanding the precious fluid. Preston sighed and closed his eyes. For the time being Peter could do nothing more for the badly injured Acting Chief. The Wireless Officer was feeling far too "groggy on his pins" to stand. Supporting himself by the gunwale, he knelt up and scanned the horizon. The wind was fresh and the sea fairly high, though regular. The boat, not under control, was driving broadside on to the wind, her high freeboard and comparatively light load allowing her to scud at quite a steady rate. Also, owing to the same circumstances, she rode the seas well, only an occasional flick of spray finding its way inboard. The rain had ceased during the night, but the bottom-boards were awash. The masts and sails were still rolled up and stowed in a painted canvas cover. Beside them was a bundle of oars, and on top of them a rudder. The fact that the boat was not under control stirred Peter to action. Having made sure that none of the rest of the _West Barbican's_ boats was in sight, he aroused the inert lascars. "Hai! hai!" he shouted. "Aft, you hands, and set sail." The men showed no great haste to execute the command. "Where go? India?" asked one. "Lay aft, both of you," exclaimed Peter sternly, although in his weak state he found himself asking how he could enforce obedience. He knew enough of the native temperament to realize that if he gave a command and failed to see it carried out, his authority over the lascars was as good as gone for ever. "Me tired," objected the other. "No _pani_, no _padi_."