For the next twelve hours the _Portchester Castle_ towed the crippled _Douro_. Late in the afternoon the latter was taken over by a couple of tugs that had been summoned from the Tagus by wireless. Free to resume her interrupted voyage, the British armed merchantman acknowledged the dip of the Portuguese ensign, and was soon reeling off the miles that separated her from Gibraltar.
"GAME for a jaunt into Spanish territory, old man?" enquired Osborne, indicating the hilly ground across the blue waters of the bay. "There's a boat leaving for Algeciras in half an hour."
The _Portchester Castle_ lay off the New Mole at Gibraltar. She had coaled and had taken in stores. A few minor defects were being made good, and she was awaiting orders to proceed. Leave had been given to the starboard watch that afternoon, and, having nothing in the way of duty to perform, Osborne had made a tempting suggestion to his chum Tom Webb.
"Rather, I'm on," replied the Sub. "There's leave for officers till eight bells, I believe."
"Yes, but we'll have to be back well before that time," observed Osborne. "The gates of the fortress close at sunset, remember."
Tom Webb during the last few days had made good use of his time at Gib., but, he argued, being ashore on that bold, rocky promontory was not exactly being abroad. He was still on British territory. Hence his eagerness to set foot upon foreign soil.
Soon the two chums, in undress uniforms, were picking their way through the narrow streets of Gibraltar, dodging among the motley crowd that comprises the populace of the place--Spaniards, Greeks, Moors, Arabs, and "Rock Scorps", with a liberal leavening of British seamen, marines, and soldiers.
"That fellow seems to take a lot of interest in us," remarked Webb as the two officers found themselves on board the little steamer bound for Algeciras.
"Let him," declared Osborne inconsequently. He had had too long an acquaintance with foreign ports to trouble about the curious looks and attentions of the inhabitants. "Which one do you refer to? That Spaniard with the piebald side-whiskers?"
"No, the johnny leaning against the ventilator," replied the Sub. "Looks as if he wants a permanent prop, and his hands seem sewn up in his pockets."