IN THE NICK OF TIME
Ken was right. That was why the firing had stopped. A destroyer, which
must have been lying in some cove up the Straits, had been summoned by
wireless to take revenge on the bold intruder. She was now dashing
headlong in pursuit.
Roy stared at the dull white glare which came momentarily nearer.
'Rotten luck!' he observed disgustedly. 'None of the "conquering hero" in
ours, I'm afraid, old man.'
'Afraid not,' Ken answered resignedly. 'The brute's got the legs of us,
and it'll only take one o' those twelve-pounders to settle our hash.
Still, it's no use crying till we're hurt, and the Turks ain't the best
gunners in the world.'
'Crash!' Another shell screamed out of the mist.
'Nearer!' said Roy grimly, as the ugly missile fell alongside, sending up
a fountain of brine.
'Watch her, doing the outside edge!' he continued, as the launch curved
swiftly to port. 'That'll throw 'em off their shooting. Ah, I told you
so'--as the third shell went wide.
'We can't shoot back,' growled Dimmock. 'That's the worst of these rotten
little bow guns.'
'No, it's simply a matter of running and dodging,' said Ken, and turning
went back to where his father was standing.
'Poor luck, Ken,' said the latter with his usual calmness. 'The beggar's
gaining hand over fist. She's at least five knots faster than we.'
'Well, we've hurt the Turks a jolly sight worse than they can hurt us,
that's one comfort, dad,' Ken replied. 'They can't replace that
ammunition.'
Before his father could answer, a shell from the destroyer passed so close
overhead that the wind of it flung them both down. There was a splintering
crash, and the launch quivered all over.
'Hurt, father?' cried Ken, springing up.
'Not a bit, thanks. But I'm afraid the launch is.'
'She's still moving anyhow. No, it's only carried away a bit of the cabin
top. We're all right still.'
The searchlight grew clearer every moment. Already the hull of the flying
launch began to show up in the misty radiance. Her steersman sent her
shooting in wide curves, and so succeeded in upsetting the aim of the
Turkish gunners. But it was only putting off the inevitable end, and that
was clear to every soul aboard.
[Illustration: 'The deck-house melted in a shower of splinters.']
'It's no use, dad,' said Ken, as another shell cut away the top of the
stumpy funnel. We can't get away. Let's finish, fighting.'
'Turn and try to ram her?'
'Yes, and Dimmock might by luck get a shell into her. He's a pretty nippy
shot in spite of being out of practice.'
'All right, Ken. I'd rather die fighting than running.'
He raised his voice.
'Mr Morgan, put her hard aport! Dimmock, here's your chance for a last
shot.'
Round came the launch, turning on her keel like a racing yacht, and
straight she sped for her big pursuer. The latter was evidently taken
aback by this unexpected manoeuvre, and for a moment her searchlight lost
the launch.
The moment the glare was gone the hull of the destroyer showed up dark
against the mist.
'Now's your chance, Dimmock!' cried Ken, and almost instantly the little
gun spoke, and the crash was followed by a flash which lit the destroyer's
deck.
'Oh, good shot, Dimmock!' exclaimed the captain. 'That shell exploded
right under her bridge.
For a moment the destroyer yawed right off her course, but she was under
control again in a few seconds, and her forward gun spoke once more.
The flash was followed by a tremendous shock, and the launch, with her
rudder and part of her stern carried away, spun round helplessly, and
began to drift downstream.
'That's finished it,' groaned Roy.
Again the destroyer's gun roared, and the deckhouse melted in a shower of
splinters. Ken, struck on the leg by one of them, toppled over helplessly.
His leg felt numb, he could not move. There was nothing for it now but to
await the inevitable end.
Crash! Vaguely Ken realised that this was a heavier gun than the
12-pounders of the destroyer. He heard a shell roar overhead, then from
the destroyer, now no more than a hundred yards away, rose a blinding
flash.
'Hurrah!' he heard Roy shout, but the reason he could not imagine. He made
a desperate effort to struggle up, felt the blood gush hot from his wound.
His head spun, he fell back and knew no more.
Coming back to consciousness after being knocked out is always a slow and
painful business. The first thing that Ken's muddled brain took in was the
surprising fact that he was lying in a real bed between beautifully clean
sheets.
He had not been in such a bed for more than six months, and he could not
understand it at all.
Slowly he opened his eyes, and looked up at a whitewashed ceiling. Through
a window opposite the sun was shining and a warm breeze blowing.
'I suppose I'm dreaming,' he said at last, and was surprised to hear how
weak and husky his voice seemed.
Some one rose quickly from a chair beside the bed.
'My dear lad,' came his father's voice.
Ken stared at him.
'Is it real?' he asked vaguely. 'Where am I?'
'Absolutely genuine, my boy,' answered Captain Carrington, smiling. 'You
are in hospital in Lemnos, and here you've been for two days. We began to
think you were never coming round again.'
'I'm sorry I frightened you,' said Ken, 'but I wish you'd tell me how I
got here. I had a sort of impression that I ought to be at the bottom of
the Dardanelles.'
'The marvel is that we were not all there,' answered his father gravely.
'It was the cruiser "Carnelian" that saved us at the very last moment by
putting a six-inch shell into the Turkish destroyer.'
'But how on earth did she come to be there, right up the Straits?' Ken
asked amazedly.
'That was Strang's doing. The good chap sent a wireless asking them to
look out for us.'
'Jove, that was smart of him,' Ken said smilingly. 'But Roy, dad? Is Roy
all right?'
'Quite right. He has rejoined his regiment.'
Ken's face fell.
'What about me, dad? Don't say I shan't be able to do the same.'
'There is no need to say anything of the sort, my boy,' replied his father
quickly. 'The only trouble with you is that you lost more blood than was
good for you. The splinter cut a small artery. I have no doubt whatever
that you will be able to rejoin in a month or so.'
'A month! It may be all over by then.'
'It won't,' said the other gravely. 'It will take more than a month to
open the Dardanelles. You'll get your fill of fighting before this
business is over. Those who know best say that it will take three months
at least to beat the Turks.'
'That's all right,' said Ken, with reckless disregard for the hopes of the
British Empire. 'I want a chance of doing my bit in the trenches alongside
Dave and Roy.'
For a moment or two Captain Carrington watched his son in silence.
'You'll be doing your bit under rather different conditions in future,' he
said quietly.
Ken stared. 'What do you mean, dad?'
For answer his father picked up the khaki tunic which hung over the end of
the bed, and showed Ken the sleeve.
On it was the star indicating the rank of Second-Lieutenant in His
Majesty's Army.