The sea was deadly cold, and the boat so small
that they were only just able to keep their heads above water. And they
knew, both of them, that their chances of life were not one in a thousand.
They were right out in mid-straits, they were still fully nine miles from
the southern entrance, and even if a British warship should come up to see
what had happened to the trawlers, the odds were enormous against her
people spotting them.
Ken strained his eyes through the gloom, but could neither see nor hear
any other craft. The waters were bare and silent.
'Roy,' he said at last, and it was all he could do to keep his teeth from
chattering. 'Roy, can't we manage to right the dinghy?'
'You and I might. But what about Gill?'
The question was unanswerable. It would take all their united strength to
turn the dinghy over. And who was to hold Gill meantime?
No, the case was absolutely desperate. There was nothing for it but to
hang on and continue hanging on until at last the deadly cold had done its
work, and they dropped off and sank into the darksome depths beneath them.
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