McGuntrie took a turn or two. In the ship's library he had discovered a
manual entitled "How to Swim," and he was now attempting between laments
to memorize its salient points.

"The first essay is best made in water of not less than fifty degrees
Fahrenheit, and not more than four feet in depth," he gabbled, and
then broke off to gaze at the sea about us, chilly in temperature, and
countless fathoms deep. "Oh, what's the use? What the blue blazes does
it matter?" he cried hysterically. "I tell you that U-boat that sank the
_San Pietro_ is laying for us. In about an hour you'll see a periscope
bob up out there. Then we'll send out an S.O.S., and the next thing you
know we'll sink with all on board."

We had as yet escaped this doom when toward six o'clock we approached
Gibraltar, running beneath a crimson sunset and between misty purple
shores. On one hand lay Africa, on the other the Moorish country,
both shrouded in a soft haze and edged with snowy foam. Down below
the soldiers of Italy were singing. A merchantman of belligerent
nationality, our ship proudly flew its flag again. Indeed, had it failed
to do so, the British patrol-boats would long since have known the
reason why.

It was growing dark when I turned to find Van Blarcom at my elbow.

"I didn't see you," I commented rather shortly. I don't like people to
creep up beside me like cats.

"No," he responded. "I've been waiting quite a while. I didn't want to
disturb you, but the fact is I'd like a word with you, Mr. Bayne."