Then the stranger bellows: "Look at my propellers! There's been a wulli-wa down under that has knocked us into umbrella-frames! We've been blown up about forty thousand feet! We're all one conjuror's watch inside! My mate's arm's broke; my engineer's head's cut open; my Ray went out when the engines smashed; and ... and ... for pity's sake give me my height, Captain! We doubt we're dropping." "Six thousand eight hundred. Can you hold it?" Captain Purnall overlooks all insults, and leans half out of the colloid, staring and snuffing. The stranger leaks pungently. "We ought to blow into St. John's with luck. We're trying to plug the fore-tank now, but she's simply whistling it away," her captain wails. "She's sinking like a log," says Captain Purnall in an undertone. "Call up the Banks Mark Boat, George." Our dip-dial shows that we, keeping abreast the tramp, have dropped five hundred feet the last few minutes. Captain Purnall presses a switch and our signal beam begins to swing through the night, twizzling spokes of light across infinity. "That'll fetch something," he says, while Captain Hodgson watches the General Communicator. He has called up the North Banks Mark Boat, a few hundred miles west, and is reporting the case. "I'll stand by you," Captain Purnall roars to the lone figure on the conning-tower. "Is it as bad as that?" comes the answer. "She isn't insured, she's mine." "Might have guessed as much," mutters Hodgson. "Owner's risk is the worst risk of all!" "Can't I fetch St. John's--not even with this breeze?" the voice quavers. "Stand by to abandon ship. Haven't you _any_ lift in you, fore or aft?" "Nothing but the midship tanks and they're none too tight. You see, my Ray gave out and--" he coughs in the reek of the escaping gas. "You poor devil!" This does not reach our friend. "What does the Mark Boat say, George?" "Wants to know if there's any danger to traffic. Says she's in a bit of weather herself and can't quit station. I've turned in a General Call, so even if they don't see our beam some one's bound to help--or else we must. Shall I clear our slings. Hold on! Here we are! A Planet liner, too! She'll be up in a tick!" "Tell her to have her slings ready," cries his brother captain. "There won't be much time to spare.... Tie up your mate," he roars to the tramp. "My mate's all right. It's my engineer. He's gone crazy." "Shunt the lift out of him with a spanner. Hurry!" "But I can make St. John's if you'll stand by." "You'll make the deep, wet Atlantic in twenty minutes. You're less than fifty-eight hundred now. Get your papers."