"We--stopped it, Madden."
"Are you badly hurt?" inquired the American, becoming more nearly normal
himself.
"Punch through my shoulder."
"Were you hit in the explosion?"
"One of the _Panther's_ machine guns--ricocheted, I think."
"What rotten luck!" growled Madden.
Smith reached his good arm to the float. "Had it all my life in little
things, Madden, but the _Panther_--that torpedo----"
"Boat ahoy!" called Farnol Greer suddenly.
Leonard looked about and saw that the _Panther_ had laid to, a good
two miles distant, and two of her cutters were coming back to pick up
the survivors. A blue-jacket on the sharp bow of the little vessel waved
an arm at Farnol's cry, and presently the rescuing party was alongside.
Caradoc went up first, then Farnol, Malone and Madden, who automatically
clung to his tin canister.
The sailors from the warship were chattering excitedly over the
miraculous preservation of the _Panther_.
"If that tug had been 'arf a second later," declared one, "she'd 'ave
'ad us, Sniper, sure--to th' port, there, Bobby, there's another chap
kickin' in th' water."
One of the sailors had a roll of bandages, and he now moved over to
Caradoc and stooped over the wounded man.
"You're pinked," he said in a tone of authority.
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