The whole mass of flotsam
swung slowly around the whirlpool where tug and submarine had sunk.
The circling water was filmed with oil, the life-blood of the stricken
submarine. Presently the concavity in the ocean mounted to level, and
its rotation slowly died away. The American found that his arms had
unwittingly clasped something which proved to be an empty tin canister
with a screw top. He hung to it apathetically. His ears bled from the
concussion of the torpedo, and it was with difficulty that he focussed
his eyes on anything.
Presently he became aware of a voice calling his name. It seemed a long
way off, but when he looked around he saw Farnol Greer quite close to
him. The thick-set black-headed fellow motioned for Madden to approach,
and the American kicked himself and his float in that direction. A
little later he saw that Malone was with Farnol, and that the two were
supporting a third man.
"Lend us a 'and, 'ere, Madden," called Malone; "our chap's knocked out."
"Who is it? Oh, it's Caradoc!" Madden stared down into the still,
upturned face with a dull emotionless feeling. He was too numb to feel
or sympathize. "Is he dead?" he finally asked.
"Wounded, sir," replied Greer.
At that moment, the Englishman moved slightly, opened his eyes.
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