"How far have we come?" I asked, as I saw my father examine the indicator of the log.
"A hundred and fifty-six miles in twenty-three hours."
"Roughly, it is three hundred miles to Cape Finisterre, and then we shall be practically in sight of land right round the coast of Portugal and Spain till we reach Gib."
"And where's Uncle Herbert? I haven't seen him this morning."
"But haven't you heard him? It's his watch below, and most likely he's sound asleep and snoring. But look, here's a sight for you."
Rapidly bearing down towards us was a huge liner, her graceful hull glistening in the sunlight as she thrashed her way through the water. As she drew nearer we could see her decks crowded with passengers, who were regarding, doubtless with considerable curiosity, our little strangely rigged craft as she ploughed her way over the rollers.
We dipped our ensign, and in reply the liner's flag was slowly lowered and as slowly rehoisted, and twenty minutes later she was a mere speck on the horizon.
Soon afterwards the rescued yachtsman appeared' on deck, assisted by Johnston, and, making his way towards us, warmly thanked my father for saving his life. "You certainly were in a bit of a pickle," remarked my pater, offering him a deck-chair and producing his cigar-case. "Let's hear all about it, for, with pardonable curiosity, I am eager to learn the facts of the case."
"With pleasure, Mr. Trevena. You see, I obtained your name from the steward, and have gathered some particulars about the 'Fortuna.' But to proceed to the story of my adventures. My name is Arthur Conolly, by profession I am a doctor of medicine, by choice I would be a yachtsman, for the sea always had a strong attraction for me. When at home I live in Dublin--or 'dear dirty Dublin,' as my compatriots fondly term it--but on every suitable opportunity I cruise around the British Isles in my three-tonner 'Sea Shell,' or rather, I should say, I cruised, for my snug little craft is unfortunately at the bottom of the sea.
"On Monday last I left Wexford Harbour, intending to fetch Falmouth and thence by easy stages round the Solent, where I have invariably spent the months of July and August during the past seven years. The 'Sea Shell' is, or was, a modern type of boat, with spoon bow and short counter, and a short keel. She had a watertight cockpit, and was in every way fitted for single-handed work, except for one thing: she would not lie hove-to without constant attention, a fault which the older type of straight-stemmed boats never possessed; and that defect was the cause of my misfortune.