'Who are you?' came a gruff voice, half-muffled, as though afraid of being
overheard on shore.
'Friends--British,' answered Ken. 'Our boat's sinking.'
There came a sharp order echoed from the farther ship. The trawlers both
slackened speed.
'Come alongside, if you can. We can't pull out to you,' called the same
voice that Ken had heard previously.
A few more strokes, then just as the boat was actually sinking under them,
a rope came whizzing across. Roy caught it and a moment later, wet and
draggled, they were standing on the deck of the trawler.
'Well, I'll be everlastingly jiggered,' exclaimed a gruff voice. 'Where in
all that's wonderful did you fellers spring from?' The speaker was a
short, square man, but it was so dark that all they could see of his face
was that it was round and clean-shaven.
'Out of the Dardanelles last, and before that from Kilid Bahr,' Ken
answered. 'We're escaped prisoners.'
'Gosh, you've been in warm places, young fellers,' said the other, 'but I
kind o' think it's a case of out of the frying pan into the fire.
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