“Where did that tug come from?” he inquired at once. “Most extraordinary sight—whole fleet pounding away at a tug—Ponsonby is my name.”
Madden mentioned his own, and several brother officers, seeing that here was an intelligent fellow, gathered about the American. Two or three were introduced with English formality.
“If you are not too bowled over, old chap,” begged a middy named Gridson, “explain to us how a tug ever happened in the middle of the Sargasso in full flight from a hostile fleet.”
Some of the wounded were still coming up from the cutter, as Madden made a beginning of the tug's story. Just then he was interrupted by Ponsonby.
“Pardon, Madden, but who is that chap coming up—Say, Gridson, that isn't—why that's Wentworth!” The middy suddenly dropped his voice. “That's Wentworth or his ghost, fellows—off of a tug!”
Madden looked. Smith was coming on the deck under the solicitous escort of a surgeon.
“That's Caradoc Smith,” said Madden. “He
