The Fritz Strafers: A Story of the Great War
Date: 2021-05-05T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: World War; 1914-1918 -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: The Fritz Strafers: A Story of the Great War

Author: Percy F. Westerman

Illustrator: Stanley L. Wood

Release date: May 5, 2021 [eBook #65262]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Credits: R.G.P.M. van Giesen. Thank you, Pierre and Sasha!

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FRITZ STRAFERS: A STORY OF THE GREAT WAR ***

{Illustration: cover}

{Illustration: spine}

THE FRITZ STRAFERS

{Illustration: "DEFIANTLY DISPLAYED THE EMBLEM OF FREEDOM." [p. 284}

THE FRITZ STRAFERS

A STORY OF THE GREAT WAR

BY

PERCY F. WESTERMAN

AUTHOR OF
"BILLY BARCROFT, R.N.A.S.," "A WATCHDOG OF THE NORTH SEA"
"A SUB OF THE R.N.R."
ETC. ETC.

LONDON
S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO. LTD.
OLD BAILEY

CONTENTS

CHAPTER. | | PAGE
I. | "Coming Events..." | 13
II. | The Danger Signal | 23
III. | The Ober-Leutnant's Jaunt | 34
IV. | Foiled | 45
V. | The Pursuit | 54
VI. | Von Loringhoven Learns News | 62
VII. | Bruno's Escapade | 75
VIII. | Torpedoed | 86
IX. | The Skipper of the "Guiding Star" | 95
X. | The Blimp to the Rescue | 106
XI. | The Strafing of U 254 | 118
XII. | Prisoners of War | 127
XIII. | The End of the "Tantalus" | 135
XIV. | A Chance Shot | 143
XV. | Laid by the Heels | 158
XVI. | The Struggle in the Lonely Cottage | 168
XVII. | The Burning Munition Ship | 176
XVIII. | The Fugitive | 189
XIX. | Billy's Flying-Boat | 201
XX. | Rammed | 210
XXI. | The Last Voyage of s.s. "Andromeda" | 221
XXII. | Farrar's First Bag | 233
XXIII. | The Storm | 246
XXIV. | The Sinking Transport | 254
XXV. | Holcombe's Surprise | 262
XXVI. | A Fight to a Finish | 276
XXVII. | In The Hands of the Huns | 291
XXVIII. | "A Second Kopenick Hoax" | 304
XXIX. | A Surprise | 313
XXX. | Comrades in a Strange Land | 326
XXXI. | A Dash for Freedom | 337
XXXII. | Touch and Go | 352
XXXIII. | The Great Strafe | 366
XXXIV. | And Last | 376

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"Defiantly displayed the Emblem of Freedom" | Frontispiece

Facing
page

"A Couple of Bluejackets Burst through the Undergrowth" | 52
"Seizing Farrar, began to haul him out of the Cottage, despite a Strenuous Resistance" | 172
"'Good Heavens! It's Old Slogger!'" | 324

THE FRITZ STRAFERS

CHAPTER I

"COMING EVENTS..."

"QUITE right for once, Moke. Young brothers are unmitigated nuisances," declared Hugh Holcombe. "If I hadn't been such a silly owl to let my young brother try his luck with my motor-bike, I wouldn't be sitting here in this muggy carriage. Any sign of Slogger yet?"

The youth addressed as Moke thrust his bulky head and shoulders out of the open window and made a deliberate survey of the road that ran steadily down the hillside until it merged into the station yard of the little town of Lynbury.

It was a case of somewhat regrettable inadvertence when fifteen years previously Sylvester's parents had had him christened in the name of Anthony Alexander; for when, in due course, the lad entered Claverdon College the fellows, the moment they saw his initials painted boldly upon his trunk and tuck-box, dubbed him "Moke," and the name stuck like tar.

He did not resent it, which showed tact. In fact, he rather rejoiced in the nickname. It harmonised with his slow, plodding, deliberate ways. Imprimis, he was a swot; modern languages were his forte, although he was no mean classical scholar for his age. Anything of a mechanical nature failed to interest him. He knew a motor-bike when he saw one, but that was all. Ask him "how it worked"—a question to which his companion would reply by a fusillade of highly technical explanations—and he was "bowled middle stump."

Hugh Holcombe was cast in a different mould. Except in point of age there was little in common between the two lads. Holcombe was tall for his age, and possessed the appearance of a budding athlete. Although in mufti—he was spending the last week of the Christmas vacation with an uncle at Southsea before rejoining Osborne College—there was a certain self-assurance that the natural outcome of a training that inspires manliness, self-reliance, and courage from the first moment that an embryo Nelson sets foot in the cradle of the Royal Navy.

And the still absent Slogger——?

Slogger must wait until he enters this narrative. Sufficient to say that the three lads—as yet mere strands in the vast fabric of Empire—were to make their mark in the titanic struggle that was to convulse the whole world, each working in a different manner to one and the same just purpose.

It was in those halcyon, far-off days preceding the fateful 4th day of August 1914. To be more precise, it was January of the preceding year. Little did hundreds, nay thousands, of doting parents then imagine that on land and sea, in the air and in the waters under the earth, would their sons risk, and often give their young lives, for King, Country, and Freedom's Cause.

"Not the suspicion of a sign," replied Sylvester to his companion's inquiry. "He'll miss the train if he doesn't buck up. Here's the guard toddling along the platform."

"Hope that silly cuckoo of a Slogger won't miss it!" exclaimed Holcombe, resting his hands on the Moke's back and peering through the narrow space betwixt the latter's broad shoulders and the top of the carriage window. "He promised he'd bring an accumulator along with him, and I want to have some fun with the beastly thing during the next few days."

It was nearly eight o'clock in the morning. The sun was on the point of rising, while over the town the retreating shadow of night still contended with the grey dawn of another day. Passengers in twos and threes, most of them carrying luggage, were hurrying towards the station in the knowledge that the 8 a.m., although it was usually later in starting, sometimes did steam out at five minutes to the hour. Still no signs of Slogger.

"Dash it all, the train's starting!" exclaimed the Moke, as a cloud of white vapour drifted from under the carriages.

"Not much," corrected Holcombe. "It's only the steam from the heating apparatus. The guard isn't ready yet."

He indicated the venerable official on whom under Providence depended the safety and welfare of such of His Majesty's lieges who adventured themselves upon the Lynbury and Marshton Branch Line. Usually the guard would walk along the platform, exchanging scraps of conversation with his patrons, most of whom he knew by name, but on this occasion he was seated on a large wicker hamper and was studiously and laboriously writing in a note-book.

Curiosity was one of the Moke's failings, in that he was unable to restrain an outward display of a desire for knowledge. The mere fact that the guard was seated within four yards of the carriage-window and yet failed to exchange the usual pleasantries with the hefty youth wearing the Claverdon College cap rather puzzled him.

"Hullo, guard!"

At this greeting the official raised his eyes, looked at Sylvester for a brief instant and resumed his absorbing task. It was too much for the Moke's curiosity.

"Hullo, guard!" he repeated. "You look busy."

It was just what the guard was waiting for. Slowly and deliberately he rose and walked up to the carriage window.

"I am, young gentleman," he replied. "I'm looking up the names of those passengers who remembered me last Christmas."

Holcombe chuckled audibly. His companion, striving to hide his confusion, fumbled in his pocket.

"Sorry, guard——" he began.

"Quite all right, sir," interposed the guard, waving aside the proffered sixpence. "I take the will for the deed. When you come to Lynbury as a member of the Diplomatic Corpse (the guard knew Moke's ambitions, although his rendering of the title of that branch of the Civil Service was a trifle gruesome and wide of the mark), an' you, young gentleman (indicating Holcombe), as a full-blown captain, then perhaps, if I'm still here to see you, I'll drink your health in a bottle of Kentish-brewed ale—best in the world, bar none."

He pulled out and consulted a large silver watch.

"Time we're off, young gents," he announced, as the clanging of the station bell resounded along the now almost deserted platform.

"Slogger's missed it," declared Holcombe as the whistle blew.

With a jerk the little train started on its five-mile journey. Already the last carriage was half way down the platform when a loud shout of "Stand-back, sir!" attracted the two lads' attention.

The next instant the door was thrown open, and with an easy movement the missing Slogger swung himself into the compartment and waved a friendly salute to the baffled porter who had vainly attempted to detain him.

"By Jove, Slogger!" exclaimed Hoke, "you've cut it fine. Incurring penalties, too, under the company's bye-laws."

"P'r'aps," rejoined the unruffled arrival. "What's more to the point, I've caught the train—see? Oh, by the by, Holcombe, here's that blessed accumulator I promised you. 'Fraid I've spilt some of the acid, but that can't be helped. Had to shove it in my pocket when I sprinted."

Holcombe took the proffered gift and, reluctantly sacrificing an advertisement paper from a recently purchased motor-journal, carefully wiped off the residue of the spilt acid, while Slogger, perfunctorily turning the lining of his pocket inside out and shaking it against the sill of the window, dismissed from his mind the possibilities of the corrosive action on his clothes.

Nigel Farrar, otherwise Slogger, was a tall, broad-shouldered youth of sixteen. His nom-de-guerre was singularly appropriate, as indeed most nicknames bestowed by one's chums in a public school usually are. He won it on the cricket field; upheld it in every sport and game in which he took part. His remark to the Moke was characteristic of his thoroughly practical manner. To attain a desired end he would, even at his present age, "force his way through a hedge of hide-bound regulations." It was on this account, and to a certain extent because he did not shine at studious work, that he did not wear a prefect's badge on his cap, although by far and away the most athletic youth at Claverdon.

Farrar and Holcombe were similar in more than one respect. Both were physically and morally strong; both were deeply interested in things mechanical and practical. They were typical examples of the modern boy. Even at an early age fairy tales would have "bored them stiff." Show them an exact model of an intricate piece of machinery they would probably pronounce it to be ripping, and almost in the same breath put forth sound theories as to how the mechanism actuated. But Farrar was rather inclined to be what is popularly described as "slap-dash." With him everything had to be done in a violent hurry, while Holcombe was slow and precise in his movements, although far in advance of the painstaking Moke, who stood an excellent chance of passing the "Civil Service Higher" provided he could speed up sufficiently to get his examination questions answered within the specified time limit.

As the train rattled and jolted on its journey the three travellers fell to discussing the still remote summer holidays.

"I'm off to Germany," announced the Moke. "The governor takes me every year, you know."

"You'll be nabbed one of these fine days, my festive, and clapped into a German prison," declared the naval cadet with the air of a man who enjoys the confidence of High Officialdom and is actually in the know.

"What for?" inquired Sylvester. "I don't run up against regulations every time I get the chance, either here or abroad," he added. "I'm not like Slogger, you know."

"Thanks for small mercies," rejoined Farrar. "As a matter of fact, Holcombe, my governor talks of taking the yacht to the Baltic. How about it? Like to come along too. Spiffing rag we can have."

"Thanks, no," replied Holcombe ungraciously. "When war with Germany breaks out I want to have a look in. It's on the cards that the Dartmouth cadets will be embarked for duty with the fleet if there's a scrap, and by that time I hope I'll have passed through Osborne."

"There'll be no war with Germany," declared the Moke with a firm conviction based upon his father's views upon the subject. "Germany is our very best friend at the present day."

"A good many fools think that," said Holcombe bluntly. "Those are the fellows who would barter our naval supremacy for the sake of a paltry six or eight millions a year."

"You talk as if you were a millionaire yourself," remarked Sylvester, with thinly veiled sarcasm. "Of course the navy's your firm that is to be. You're only a cadet yet, Holcombe, an' don't you forget it. What's the use of an expensive navy when disputes can be settled by arbitration?"

"Arbitration!" snorted Slogger. "What's the use of arbitration? It's all right for little nations when the big ones are on the spot to keep order. I guess Holcombe's right. There'll be a most unholy scrap some day between England and Germany, and we'll all have to chip in—every man-jack of us."

"Think so?" inquired Holcombe with professional jealousy. "The navy'll manage the business properly, and you civilian chaps can stop at home and thank your lucky stars there is a navy."

"Of course we'll return grateful thanks," agreed Farrar; "but all the same, the navy won't be able to see the business through without the assistance of the Naval Reserve and all that jolly crowd, you know. So it's just possible, my dear Holcombe, that you and I may be in the same scrap. Before that comes off I want to work in that trip to the Baltic this summer, so don't induce the Government to declare war just at present, will you, old sport?"

Half seriously, half in jest, the trio continued the discussion, unconscious of the fact that the subject was the shadow cast by coming events.

CHAPTER II

THE DANGER SIGNAL

A LONG and crowded train stood in Poldene Station prior to setting out upon the last stages of its journey from London to the Trecurnow Naval Base.

It was late in the autumn of 1917, and well into the fourth year of the titanic struggle that will go down to posterity as The Great War.

Save for a few aged male porters, half a dozen women of a type evolved by war-time conditions ("porteresses," a commander called them when hailing for some one to shift his gear from a taxi to the luggage-van), and a few keenly interested Devonshire children, the platform was devoid of the civilian element; but from one end to the other of the cambered expanse of asphalt pavement the down platform was teeming with officers and bluejackets, all only too glad to have the opportunity of stretching their stiff limbs after long and tedious hours of confinement in the train. Men whose moustaches were enough to proclaim them as members of the R.N.R. mingled with the clean-shaven or beardless stalwarts of the pukka navy, while others in salt-stained blue jerseys and sea-boots, hardy fishermen in pre-war days, were now about to fish for deadly catches—drifting mines.

Outside the open door of a carriage, almost at the end of the train, stood two officers. One was a medium-size, dark-featured man whose rank, as denoted by the strip of purple between the gold rings on his cuffs, was that of engineer-lieutenant. The other, a tall, powerfully-built youth—for he was not yet out of his teens—sported the uniform of a sub-lieutenant of the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve.

"It's a great wheeze—absolutely," declared the engineer-lieutenant, who was explaining a technical matter in detail to his deeply interested companion. "The double-cam action to the interrupted thread is some scheme, what? You follow me?"

"It certainly ought to put the wind up Fritz," admitted the sub. "But there's one point that I haven't yet got the hang of. The sighting arrangements may be all very well, but how about refraction?"

"We make due allowance, my festive," replied the engineer-lieutenant. "You see—hullo, you're not smoking!"

"Quite correct," agreed the junior officer. "Quite correct, Tommy. Matter of fact, like a blamed idiot I left my pouch in the smoking-room and never found it out until I arrived at the station. Too late to buy any off the stalls, you know."

"Cigarette?" The engineer-lieutenant's silver cigarette-case was proffered with the utmost alacrity. "You don't smoke 'em as a rule, I know, but in the harrowing circumstances——"

"Thanks," exclaimed his companion. Then deftly tearing the paper he roiled the liberated weed between the palms of his hands and filled his pipe.

"Rather unorthodox, what?" queried the engineer-lieutenant, smiling at the sight of a fellow ramming choice Egyptian cigarette tobacco into a briar.

"Possibly," admitted the other. "The main thing is that I've filled my pipe."

He struck a match, effectually shielding the light by his hands after the manner of men accustomed to do so in the teeth of a gale. "Now to return to earth once more."

"Slogger, by all that's wonderful!" exclaimed a crisp, full-toned voice. "What is dear old Slogger doing down in this part of the country?"

"Cadging tobacco," replied the R.N.V.R. man. "Also looking after the welfare and morals of a party of bluejackets. Bless my soul, Holcombe, this is great. Let me see—three years, isn't it, since we knocked up against each other?"

"Three years and two months," admitted Sub-Lieutenant Holcombe. "I saw your appointment announced and meant to write to you. Somehow I didn't. Why? Ask me another. I can't tell you. What's your ship?"

"The 'Tantalus,'" replied Farrar. "We're just off on convoy duties to the West Indies. Oh, by the way, let me introduce you to Tommy."

"Too late, old bird," exclaimed Holcombe, shaking hands with the engineer-lieutenant. "Tommy was in his last term at Osborne when I joined. D'ye remember that topping rag we had at Cowes, Tommy? Of course you do. An' I hear you dropped in for a chunk of kudos in the Jutland scrap?"

"Oh, dry up, do!" protested the modest hero. "What's your packet?"

"The 'Antipas,'" replied Holcombe. "Just commissioning."

"New destroyer, isn't she?" inquired Farrar.

"Yes; the old boat of that name piled herself on the rocks on the East Coast. We've got a topping skipper—Tressidar's his name. We're off Fritz-hunting in the Irish Sea, I hear. Not quite so exciting as the North Sea, perhaps, but I've had enough of the Auldhaig Flotilla Patrol for the present, thank you. Hullo, who's the Brass Hat?"

He indicated a tall, florid-featured Staff Officer in the uniform of a major who was striding between the press of bluejackets in the direction of the rear portion of the train. By his side walked a huge St. Bernard dog, muzzled and held by a massive steel chain.

"Hanged if I know," replied Farrar. "I didn't see him at Paddington, but that's not saying much. Suppose he's giving an eye to those Tommies in the fore-part of this packet. Fine dog, anyhow."

Orders were shouted along the platform. Rapidly the navy folk boarded the train until the major stood almost alone in the resplendent glory of his immaculate uniform.

"Guard!" he exclaimed peremptorily. "I want to accompany this brute in your compartment. He doesn't like a crowd, but he's quite safe when I'm with him."

"Very good, sir," replied the guard, touching his cap. "We're just off, sir."

"Wonder who the Brass Hat is?" reiterated Holcombe. "Did you notice that he didn't seem at all keen on salute-hunting? Kept well this end of the platform, and didn't have a pal to speak to. Well, if he is a hermit, he'll have solitude and repose in the luggage van. Dashed fine dog," he added in endorsement of his chum's declaration. "Advantage of having a Service chap for a master: no jolly worry about feeding the brute."

For some minutes silence reigned. The officers in the compartment were studiously watching the unsurpassable Devon scenery as the train swept through the coombes of the shire of the Sea Kings.

"Wonder when we'll see this sight again?" remarked Farrar. "Dash it all, I love the sea as a brother, but I'm jolly glad to get a sniff of the land after days and weeks of steady steaming. That's where you destroyer fellows score: a week or ten days is your limit."

Holcombe smiled.

"Think yourself jolly lucky, my festive volunteer," he rejoined. "You've generally dry decks, plenty of room to move about, and enough variety of companionship to save you from quarrelling with your messmates through sheer boredom. Try a destroyer for a change, and then see if you are of the same opinion. By the by," he added, "heard anything of the Moke?"

"Sylvester? Rather!" replied Farrar. "He's a prisoner in Hunland. Collared at Mayence when war broke out. Last I heard of him was that he was at Ruhleben."

"Poor bounder!" muttered Holcombe. "Was his governor collared too?"

"No; the Moke appears to have done rather a smart thing," answered Farrar. "He had a pal with him, it appeared, and the pal was taken queer and had to go to hospital. Sylvester had good reasons for supposing there was trouble ahead on the political horizon, so he bundled his parent down to Basle and made him promise to stop there until he heard from him. Meanwhile the Moke goes back to Mayence and stands by his chum, knowing that there was a thousand chances to one that he would be detained—and he was."

"Sort of Pythias and Damon, eh?" remarked the engineer-lieutenant.

"Sporty of him," added Holcombe. "Hullo, this looks a bit rotten. We're running into a fog."

The train was nearing a lofty double-spanned bridge across a wide river. The hitherto double track had merged into a single one, as the railway swept through a deep cutting on to the embankment that formed the approach to the main structure. Patches of mist were drifting slowly down the river, and although it was possible to see from shore to shore, the low-lying valley was blotted out by the rolling billows of vapour.

A great-coated sentry pacing resolutely up and down was a silent testimony to the importance of the bridge, and to the vigilance of the authorities, while a little way from the embankment could be seen a "blockhouse" outside of which other members of the guard were "standing easy."

Half way across the bridge the train pulled up. Immediately windows were opened and the long line of carriage windows were blocked with the faces of the curious bluejackets, the men taking advantage of the stop to engage in a cross-fire of chaff with the occupants of the adjoining carriages.

Ten minutes passed, but the train gave no sign of moving. Once or twice the driver blew an impatient blast, but the distant signal stood resolutely at danger.

"Nice old biff if the train did happen to jump the rails just here," remarked the engineer-lieutenant.

"Shut up, Tommy!" exclaimed Farrar. "You're making Holcombe jumpy."

"Stow it, Slogger!" protested the sub of the 'Antipas.' "I'm only going to have a look out. Here, I say; cast your eye this way."

"Periscope on the port bow, eh?" inquired Tommy facetiously, as the two men made their way to the window. "Gangway there, Holcombe. You ask us to admire something, and at the same time you block the view with your hulking carcase. I say, something fishy—what?"

Lying on the permanent way, almost abreast the front part of the guard's van, was a small leather suit-case, to the handle of which was attached a thin cord. Evidently some one had an object in wanting to dispose of the case, for an endeavour had apparently been made to swing it under the carriage; but, the cord breaking, the attempt had been frustrated.

"Jolly queer," agreed Farrar. "If any one wanted to get rid of the thing why didn't he heave it over the bridge? Here's the guard. We'll call his attention to it.... Suppose it's all right?"

The guard came hurrying along the permanent way. He had been conferring with the engine-driver as to the probable reason for the delay and had come to the decision to allow the train to proceed at a slow pace as far as the next station—a distance of about a quarter of a mile beyond the bridge—since it was impossible for a train coming in the opposite direction to enter the "block sector" at which the signal was at danger.

"Don't know how it came there, sir," declared the guard, when the derelict bag was brought to his notice. "It certainly wasn't there when I went by five minutes ago. Sure it's not your property, gentlemen?"

He spoke after the manner of a long-suffering official who ofttimes has been the victim of a practical joke on the part of facetious passengers.

"Not ours," replied Farrar. "Perhaps the driver's dropped his war-bonus?"

"Most-like the Army gent with the dog has got rid of some surplus rations, sir," countered the guard.

"Quite possible," agreed the engineer "luff" with a grin. "You ask him."

The guard clambered on the footboard and swung himself through the open doorway of the van. In five seconds he was back again.

"He's not there, sir," he reported, "and the dog neither. You didn't by any chance see him go along the permanent way?"

The three officers descended. Owing to the fact that the train was standing in a curve only two carriages were visible from where they stood. From the nearmost one an engineer-commander and a gunnery lieutenant were watching the proceedings with bored interest.

"Going to give the train a friendly leg-up, Tommy?" inquired the engineer-commander.

"We've found some one's kit, sir," replied the young officer, picking up the case and fumbling with the lock.

"Hold on!" exclaimed Holcombe warningly. "This isn't quite all jonnick to my fancy."

"What are you fellows doing?" asked the "gunnery-jack." "Shove the stuff in the scran-bag and don't keep the train waiting all day."

Holcombe took the bag from the engineer sub's hands and made his way to the carriage occupied by the last speaker.

"What do you make of this, sir?" he inquired. "We fancy it belonged to a Staff Officer—the one with a St. Bernard, you may remember—and he's left the train since we've been here."

The lieutenant examined the exterior of the derelict with rapidly increasing interest.

"Hang it all!" he exclaimed; "I'll take all responsibility. Here goes."

And with a powerful heave he hurled the bag over the edge of the bridge.

Seven seconds later a terrific crash rent the air. The pungent fumes of acrid-smelling smoke eddied between the lattice-work girders.

"Thought as much," remarked the lieutenant with a cheerful grin on his bronzed features. "Yankee troop train due about now, eh? Only waiting until we were clear of the bridge? Lucky for us we are over the centre of the span, or that stuff might have given the piers a nasty jar. Staff Officer, you said?"

"Yes, sir," replied Holcombe.

"Beat up a dozen hands," continued the lieutenant briskly. "I'll bear the brunt if they are left behind. We'll see if we can run this mysterious Brass Hat to earth. I say, Curtis," he added, turning to the engineer-commander, "he's had at least five minutes' start. Bet you a box of De Reszke's we catch the chap within an hour."

"Done," replied the other.

CHAPTER III

THE OBER-LEUTNANT'S JAUNT

MIDNIGHT, somewhere off the North Cornish coast. To be more accurate, the position was, according to observations made by Ober-leutnant Otto von Loringhoven commanding H.I.M. unterseeboot 254, was Hatstone Point south-south-east 1/4 east, and Polgereen Point south by west 1/4 west. The rugged coast was all but hidden in the low-lying mist, only the loftier headlands being visible against the starlit sky. There was little or no wind, but shorewards a continual rumble betokened the presence of ground-swell—the "fag-end" of enormous waves generated hundreds of miles away in the vast Atlantic.

U 254 was proceeding dead slow towards the shore. The steady beat of her muffled exhausts was only just audible above the lap of the water against her blunt bows and the ripple in the wake of her triple propellers.

The ober-leutnant was standing on a raised platform that surrounded the elongated conning-tower. He was a tall, heavily built man—massive-looking in his long double-breasted coat and sea-boots. On his head he wore a black sou'-wester that, with the turned-up collar of his greatcoat and the dark muffler round his neck, left only a small portion of his face exposed: pale pasty features, shaggy beetling brows, small beady eyes, a large nose, flattened at the tip, and a loose mouth partly hidden by a closely trimmed moustache.

Close behind him stood the unter-leutnant, Hans Kuhlberg, a typical, loose-limbed, weak-chinned Prussian. No further description of this young swashbuckler is necessary. A British schoolboy was once asked by an examiner to describe the manners and customs of a certain savage tribe of Central Africa. His reply, "Manners none; customs beastly," would be equally applicable to Hans Kuhlberg.

A quartermaster at the steering-wheel on deck and a couple of hands using the lead-line were the only members of the piratical Hun crew visible; the others, eighty worthy upholders of the debased cult of German sea-power, were stowed away within the three hundred feet of steel hull.

"Report when you find fifty metres," ordered von Loringhoven for the twentieth time, addressing the leadsmen in harsh yet restrained tones, for acting under instructions they refrained from announcing the "cast" lest the sound of their voices would carry to the ears of an alert British patrol-boat's crew.

"Are you really going ashore, Herr Kapitan?" asked the unter-leutnant, who was vigorously engaged in chewing an apple—part of the spoils from a captured topsail schooner that had been sunk off Lundy a couple of days previously.

"I said so, Hans," replied von Loringhoven, "and I mean to go. Himmel! A little less noise with your throat. One would think you were drinking soup."

"Sorry, Herr Kapitan," exclaimed Hans Kuhlberg humbly. "It is a juicy—and I forgot."

U 254 was having a "day off." It was not her fault but her misfortune. Eighteen hours earlier she had approached a possible victim—a large cargo boat lying at anchor off Cardiff. Von Loringhoven was quite under the impression that the outlines of a destroyer showing up against her side was mere camouflage; but when the shadow became substance in the form of a very aggressive unit of the British Navy, U 254 was only too glad to dive. Even then it was a very narrow shave, for a four-inch shell whistled within a few inches of the periscopes. For the time being von Loringhoven prudently decided to keep away from the recognised trade routes and find a less unhealthy spot in order to charge batteries. Closing with the Cornish coast the ober-leutnant took it into his head to have a jaunt ashore on English soil.

"Fifty metres, Herr Kapitan, and a sandy bottom," reported the leadsman.

"Good!" ejaculated von Loringhoven. "See that the collapsible boat is launched, Kuhlberg. I am leaving you in charge. Keep awash, unless you sight anything of a suspicious nature, until dawn. Then rest on the bottom. At one o'clock—twenty-five hours from now—send a boat for me. Is there anything you want me to bring back?"

"Tobacco and cigarettes, Herr Kapitan," replied the unter-leutnant. "These English are swine, but they manage to get excellent tobacco. I was in hopes that when we sent that Dutch vessel to the bottom we might find good tobacco, but, ach! the stuff we found was intolerable."

His superior officer laughed.

"There is a box of cigars in my cabin," he remarked. "Mind they don't turn your head. I go and change in order to meet Englishmen as one of themselves."

Von Loringhoven disappeared below, to return in a quarter of an hour's time dressed in civilian clothes.

"Is it wise, Herr Kapitan?" asked Kuhlberg. "Your get-up is superb; yet, if you should be detected, you will be shot as a spy."

"I doubt it," rejoined the ober-leutnant. "These English are not thorough like us. They would hesitate before condemning to death a German naval officer; rather they would make much of him. An account of his adventures would appear in the British newspapers.... Nevertheless, don't think, Kuhlberg, that I want to desert you indefinitely. It is only for a few hours. Boat ready?" he inquired, dropping his bantering tone.

With muffled oars the boat approached the shore, von Loringhoven handling the yoke-lines with the air of a man who is well acquainted with his surroundings. Less than four years previously he had spent a month in North Cornwall, ostensibly to indulge in "surf-bathing." There was hardly a cove betwixt Hartland Point and St. Ives that he had not explored, aiding his trained memory by means of photographic and business-like sketches.

"Lay on your oars!" ordered the ober-leutnant, as the boat glided under the overhanging cliffs of a bold headland.

Von Loringhoven produced a powerful pair of Zeiss binoculars from his coat pocket, and focussed them upon a ledge of rocks that formed a breakwater, partly natural, partly artificial, to a tidal harbour.

"H'm," he muttered. "I thought so. They have patrols out. No matter, I must take the Fisherman's Stairs. Give way gently, men."

Protected by an outlying ledge the cove for which the boat was making was uninfluenced by the sullen ground swell. Noiselessly and unseen von Loringhoven stepped ashore, gave a few whispered instructions to the coxswain, and sent the boat back to the lurking submarine.

The ober-leutnant waited until the faint plash of the oars failed to reach his ears, then treading softly he made his way over the rough slippery causeway along the base of the cliffs. At intervals he stopped to listen intently, but only the low rumble of the surf and the occasional call of a belated sea-bird broke the silence.

It required a considerable amount of nerve to ascend or descend Fishermen's Stairs, even in broad daylight. The darkness, doubtless, modified much of the forbidding appearance of the precipitous way, but on the other hand it seemed to hide many of the otherwise visible dangers.

Von Loringhoven counted the steps as he climbed. He knew the exact number, unless, since his last visit, a landslide had altered the natural features of the place. Once he muttered a curse as his feet slipped, yet, hardly deigning to make use of the rusty iron chain that served as a rough handrail, he gained the summit of the cliffs.

Perfectly aware of the regulations that no unauthorised person must use the cliff-path between sunset and sunrise, the ober-leutnant proceeded cautiously until he gained a narrow lane leading towards the little town. Here, throwing off his secretive manner, he started off at a brisk walk until he reached a row of semi-detached villas on fairly lofty ground overlooking the harbour.

Noisily opening the gate of one of the houses von Loringhoven strode up the path with deliberate footsteps. A timorous step would, he argued with himself, give rise to suspicion. At the front door he knocked loudly and waited.

Although the heavy dark curtains over the upstairs windows allowed no strong beam of light to penetrate von Loringhoven knew by the metallic click of a switch that the electric light had just been put on. Then came the shuffling noise of slippered feet descending the stairs and the unbolting of the door.

"Hullo, Tom!" exclaimed von Loringhoven, as the door was thrown open, revealing in the faint starlight the tall, burly figure of a man in a long dressing jacket.

"Hullo, James!" was the equally boisterous reply. "You're late. Missed the last train, eh? Come in."

These histrionic greetings completed, the occupier closed the door and switched on the light, and the ober-leutnant was ushered into a well-furnished room opening out of the hall.

"You risked it, then," remarked the ober-leutnant's companion, speaking in German. "I am not surprised, von Loringhoven. Karl told me.... Business brisk?"

Ernst von Gobendorff, German by birth and upbringing, but, unfortunately, Anglo-Saxon in appearance, was one of the vast Hun espionage organisation now admitted by the most sceptical to flourish on British soil. With Teutonic thoroughness, and hitherto without the crass blundering that has oft-times wrecked the deep-laid plans of kultur, von Gobendorff had gained a high position in the ranks of the Kaiser's emissaries in hostile lands. He, like many others, was paid by results, although he drew a small fixed salary from his Hunnish paymasters. For the last eighteen months Cornwall had been the scene of his labours, most of his work consisting of transmitting information of the movements of shipping to the U-boat commanders operating off the coast. He looked English; he spoke English with a faultless Midland accent; he had an English registration card, which, though easy to obtain, is generally sufficient to satisfy the curiosity of the average county policeman. Under the assumed name of Thomas Middlecrease, and posing as a commercial traveller to a London house, he "worked" the length and breadth of the Delectable Duchy with a zeal that was the envy and admiration of genuine Knights of the Road.

Von Gobendorff was not merely a spy: he was a desperado, whenever opportunity occurred, under the distinguished patronage of the German High Command. His system of communicating with Berlin was so skilfully manipulated that unless all telegraphic and mail dispatches between Great Britain and neutral countries were suspended, he could rely upon his reports reaching the Admiralty-strasse within forty-eight hours.

"Business," replied von Loringhoven, leaning back in a lounge chair and thrusting his feet close to an electric radiator—"business is as usual. And yours?"

"Rather slack of late," admitted von Gobendorff. "However, I am expecting a coup. How is your brother, the Zeppelin commander?"

The ober-leutnant shrugged his shoulders.

"Julius burnt his fingers when he kidnapped von Eitelwurmer by mistake," he replied. "You may hear of him again, as I believe there is to be another intensity on the part of our aerial cruisers. By the by, how is von Eitelwurmer?"

"Ask me another question, Otto," replied the spy. "All I know is that he's dead; an accident, according to a North Country paper. I did not think it prudent to make further inquiries."

"At any rate," remarked von Loringhoven, "he did something to the honour and glory of the Fatherland. But what is this coup to which you referred?"

"I hear on excellent authority that a train load of American troops—curse them!—leaves Trecurnow to-morrow; or rather, I should say, to-day," said von Gobendorff, glancing at the clock.

The ober-leutnant nodded thoughtfully.

"Fairly safe?" he queried. "Well, I'll ask no more questions on that subject. You must be tired, and to do one's work properly rest is essential. I'm going to be your guest, von Gobendorff, for just about twenty-four hours, but in the circumstances I will excuse your absence. By the by, you'll be returning about six, I hope? Dine with me at the Imperial Hotel. I suppose," he added reminiscently, "that the food is not quite so good nor so plentiful as when last I visited Cornwall?"

"There is a difference," replied von Gobendorff, "but nothing like to the extent we Germans hoped. This starving-out campaign seems to hang fire."

"Our U-boats will bring England to her knees yet," declared the ober-leutnant. "They say these English never know when they are beaten, but they'll find out soon."

"One might also say that they never know when they are winning," added the spy. "Much as I hate to have to say it I must admire the matter-of-fact way in which these English take ill-news."

"They get plenty of that," retorted von Loringhoven ironically. "Every week, and down go twenty merchant ships. How long can England stand that?"

"And how many of our unterseebooten vanish while doing the good work?" asked von Gobendorff. "I am afraid, von Loringhoven, that even you cannot answer the question. It is these Englanders' mule-headed contempt for frightfulness that is making Germany's task doubly—nay, trebly hard. But we must argue no longer, Otto," he added, seeing indications of a rising temper in his guest. "We'll go to bed. I will be off before you are up, so, until to-night at the Imperial Hotel, auf Wiedersehen."

CHAPTER IV

FOILED

ERNST VON GOBENDORFF was up betimes. A forty or fifty miles' railway journey was before him. Until he was within a short distance of Poldene Station he did not consider it prudent to assume his disguise.

He knew that the great Poldene Bridge was closely guarded both by land and water. To attempt to approach would be courting suspicion, even if he appeared in a military officer's uniform. He knew that he could board a "Service" train at Poldene, but here again the difficulty arose as to how he could obtain the privacy necessary for the ultimate attainment of his designs.

The spy alighted at a small station midway between the town and the bridge. He had had a first-class carriage to himself, and the fact that he had entered it as a well-groomed civilian and had left the train dressed in the uniform of a major of the Intelligence Staff passed unnoticed.

His next step was to make for an isolated cottage standing on high ground overlooking the river. Three small boys, sauntering along the leafy lane, turned and gazed at the khaki-clad man. It was mere curiosity. They would have stared at any stranger, whether in uniform or otherwise, but von Gobendorff's lowering brows betokened intense annoyance. It meant that he had to walk past his immediate objective and return when the youngsters were at a safe distance.

A little farther down the lane a middle-aged man in worn fustian clothes was ambling along. Seeing the supposed major approach the fellow stopped, and, pulling out a clasp knife, began to cut hazel switches from the hedge. By this time von Gobendorff was within ten paces of him, and the man resumed his walk with three wands in his hand.

Von Gobendorff seemingly paid little or no attention, but, shifting his suit-case from his right hand to his left, he struck his heel lightly with his malacca cane—thrice, in a most casual way.

"Have you been to the cottage, Herr von Gobendorff?" asked the man in German. "I had to go down to the river, but I hoped to be back before you arrived."

"It matters little," replied the spy. "Have you arranged about a dog?"

"A huge beast," was the reply. "Terrifying in appearance, but he's muzzled and chained."

"It is well," rejoined von Gobendorff. "Now listen carefully. I don't want this business bungled. You say you can get across to the signal-post without being seen from the signal-box, and you know what to do?"

"Yes," was the reply. "All that is necessary is to remove a bolt from the rod, and the signal-arm, being weighted, will rise to the danger position."

"Quite so," agreed von Gobendorff; "but the point is this: can you lower the arm again? The train must be delayed for not longer than five minutes—less if possible. I will place the explosive between the rails. It has a six-minute fuse, so there is little margin. I don't want to be blown up with a crowd of Englishmen."

"I understand," replied the other. "But will six minutes be enough?"

"Enough and no more," rejoined the spy. "The moment the down train crosses the bridge and gains the double-track the American troop train, which will have to wait for it, will start again. Once over the bridge it will not matter whether the engine is over the point of detonation, for the whole structure will collapse and the train with it. Now, fetch me the dog."

The huge St. Bernard showed neither enthusiasm nor mistrust at the sight of its new master. It suffered itself to be taken away on the lead, and, as previously related, the pseudo major and his canine companion contrived to board the guard's van of the Service down train to Trecurnow.

In spite of his steady nerves von Gobendorff's pulse quickened as the train came to a standstill on the centre of the lofty bridge. As he expected, the guard's attention was directed towards the signal set at danger. What was better still, the man alighted and walked along the permanent way.

The spy waited until he saw the guard returning. Five minutes had almost elapsed, but the signal had not dropped. Von Gobendorff was confronted by two alternatives: either to set the fuse in action and drop the explosive under the carriage before the guard returned, or else wait until the line was reported clear. He chose the former, relying implicitly upon his assistant's ability to lower the signal-arm.

Therein he made a grievous error, for the bolt, in being released from the operating rods of the signal, took it into its head to jerk itself out of the man's grasp, rolling down the embankment and choosing a secure retreat under the roots of a thick thorn-bush. The wrench which von Gobendorff's accomplice employed was too massive to be used as a temporary bolt, and in the absence of anything suitable it was impossible to pull down the arm to the safety position. The train beginning to move towards the fellow's scene of action warned him that it was unhealthy to linger longer, so taking to his heels he bolted.

Meanwhile the spy cautiously lowered the explosive out of the window, intending to swing it under the carriage, but forgetting that the dog's chain was padlocked round his own wrist von Gobendorff was unpleasantly surprised when the St. Bernard shook his massive head. The sudden jolt had the result of jerking the cord out of the spy's hand, and the leather case dropped upon the permanent way in full view of the occupants of the two adjoining carriages.

Von Gobendorff made no effort to retrieve his dangerous property. It was high time that he put a safe distance between him and the explosive, for the fuse had now been active for two minutes and the signal-arm still remained at danger.

Uttering maledictions upon himself for not having unlocked the dog's chain from his wrist the spy drew the key from his pocket. To his dismay the key failed to open the padlock, while an attempt to unfasten the rusty spring-hook that fastened the chain to the animal's collar was equally fruitless.

Once again the Teutonic love of detail had over-reached itself. Von Gobendorff had arranged everything to the minutest point, but there was a slight flaw in the operations and it led to failure.

Followed by the St. Bernard the spy leapt from the van and, taking advantage of the fact that the attention of the spectators at the window was centred upon the still obstinately fixed signal, was soon lost in the drifting mist that, fortunately for him, was rising over the eastern end of the bridge.

Knowing that there was a sentry posted on the embankment von Gobendorff advanced boldly, trusting to his disguise to enable him to pass. In this he was quite successful, for the man, on seeing the "Brass Hat" approach, stood still to the salute, the pseudo major returning the compliment in correct military style.

Once clear of the sentry von Gobendorff scrambled down the embankment and made towards the well-wooded country at high speed. With luck he hoped to cover half a mile before the expected explosion occurred; even then his margin of safety was perilously small.

Suddenly the deep boom of a heavy explosion rent the air. Instinctively the spy stopped and listened intently; but no crash of falling girders and masonry, nor the cries of hundreds of men hurtling to their doom, followed the initial roar.

Conscious of failure von Gobendorff broke into a string of oaths as he resumed his flight. The dog was beginning to become a hindrance, for hitherto it had followed well; but now it showed a strong disinclination to be urged at a rapid pace at the end of a chain.

Pulling out a revolver the spy eyed the animal with the intention of trusting to a bullet to sever the recalcitrant chain. At the sight of the weapon the St. Bernard's misgivings were roused, for with a deep growl the powerful brute backed, tugging viciously at the restraining links. Too late the spy thought of unbuckling the massive metal collar, for a warning growl from the muzzled brute let him know very effectively that the St. Bernard's motto was "Noli me tangere." One of the links snapped, and the dog sat down on its haunches while the spy retreated for several feet before subsiding upon the gnarled, and exposed root of a large tree.

Regaining his feet von Gobendorff took to his heels, wrapping the severed portion of the padlocked chain round his wrist as he ran. Before he had gone very far the St. Bernard came bounding to his side.

"Go back, you brute!" exclaimed the spy apprehensively. "Go home!"

Somewhat to his surprise the animal turned tail and ambled off. Just then came the sound of voices. Already his pursuers were on his trail.

Then the unpleasant thought occurred to him that perhaps the dog might be pressed into the service of the men on his track. He wished that he had risked the sound of a revolver shot and had put a bullet through the creature's brain. He had no love for man's best friend; in his youth he had been systematically cruel to animals, and the instinct still lingered. At the best he regarded a dog simply as a slave—an instrument: When no longer of use to him he would not have the slightest compunction in taking its life. It was only fear of discovery that stayed his hand.

Von Gobendorff was a fair athlete. He was especially good at long-distance running, and as he ran with his elbows pressed to his sides his footsteps made hardly any noise. He recognised the fact that it was necessary to avoid stepping on the dried twigs that lay athwart the path or to plunge recklessly through the brushwood.

Presently he came to a fairly wide brook. He hailed the sight with delight. For one thing the water would slake his thirst; for another he could throw the dog off the scent (supposing the animal turned against its temporary master) by wading up-stream.

Before he had waded ten yards he heard sounds of his pursuers coming straight ahead as well as on his left. It was an ominous sign, for they had evidently made their way through the wood on a broad front, and some had out-distanced the rest.

Ahead was a thick clump of willows, the thickly leafed branches trailing in the limpid water. For this cover the spy made, bending low to avoid the trailing boughs. Suddenly he stepped into a deep hole. Immersed to his neck he regained his footing; steadying himself against the force of the stream by grasping a bough.

{Illustration: "A COUPLE OF BLUEJACKETS BURST THROUGH THE UNDERGROWTH." [p. 53.}

Nearer and nearer came the sound of his pursuers' footsteps, till a couple of bluejackets burst through the undergrowth and pulled up on the bank within twenty feet of the fugitive.

"S'elp me!" exclaimed one, pointing straight in the direction of the immersed spy. "If that ain't just the bloomin' place for that cove to hide. Come on, mate, let's see what's doin'."

CHAPTER V

THE PURSUIT

"TALLY-HO!" shouted Sub-Lieutenant Farrar, as the party of bluejackets, headed by the four officers, raced along the permanent way, followed by a running fire of chaff and caustic comment from their envious fellow-passengers. It would have wanted but half a word from the gunnery-lieutenant to have emptied the train, for, with inexplicable intuition, every man knew that the fortunate party was in pursuit of some desperado who had done his level best to blow up the bridge.

"A sovereign for the man who captures the fellow," announced the gunnery-lieutenant; then, remembering that he had not so much as set eyes on a coin of that denomination for the last three years, he modified his offer. "Dash it all, a pound note I mean!"

The astonished sentry at the approach to the bridge could only volunteer the information that a Staff major, accompanied by a large dog, had passed by a short time before. Alarmed at the explosion the rest of the guard had turned out, and upon a description of the suspect being given, then they, too, joined in the pursuit.

"He's made for that wood for a dead cert., sir," remarked Holcombe, as a partial lifting of the mist revealed the nearmost trees of a dense plantation.

"More'n likely," agreed the gunnery-lieutenant. "Three of you men make your way round to the right, and three to the left. You'll be on the other side before we can push our way through. The others extend in open order, and keep your weather eye lifting."

"These trees could give shelter to a full company," observed Holcombe, as the two subs found themselves in the dense undergrowth. "There's one thing—that dog can't climb a tree."

"He'd probably cast off the tow-line and abandon the brute," said Farrar. "If I had the ordering of the business I'd make for the nearest telegraph office and wire instructions for every Brass Hat within ten miles to be arrested on suspicion."

"Just the sort of thing you would do, Slogger, my festive bird," replied Holcombe. "Imagine twenty or thirty Staff officers being laid by the heels until they could establish their identity."

"It would be drastic but efficacious," grunted Farrar, as he pushed aside a sapling that had just hit him in the face.

"Unless the fellow's shed his gorgeous khaki and red plumage," added his companion. "Look out! don't lose touch with those bluejackets on your right."

He indicated two able seamen who, country born and bred before they elected to serve His Majesty upon the high seas, were entering upon the pursuit with the eagerness of a couple of trained pointers; while the additional inducement of "arf a quid apiece"—they had struck a bargain to share the proceeds, if won—had whetted their zeal to the uttermost.

"We're on his track, sir," declared one of the men, stooping and picking up a polished bit of metal. "'E's dropped a link of that dawg's chain. An' see, sir, 'ere's footprints, quite new-like."

For fifty yards the marks of the fugitive's boots were followed. From the fact that they were the imprints of the toes only, it showed that the man had been running. Then the trail was lost on hard ground.

"We'll pick them up again up-along," declared the second bluejacket optimistically, as he gave a quick glance at the bark of every tree he passed to detect, if possible, the abrasions caused by the foot gear of a climbing man.

A thick clump of prickly undergrowth offered no serious obstacle to the two A.B.'s. Farrar and Holcombe thought better of it, considering the present-day prices of uniform, and made a detour. By the time they resumed their former direction the bluejackets were fifty yards ahead.

Presently the men came to a dead stop on the edge of a brook.

"S'elp me!" exclaimed one. "If that ain't just the bloomin' place for that cove to hide. Come on, mate, let's see what's doin'."

"Right-o," assented the other. "But look out for holes. There usually are some under willows such as that. Let's get up-stream a bit afore we cross. 'Tain't no use getting wet up to your neck when you need only wet your beetle-crushers."

Before these good intentions could be carried out the shrill blast of a whistle echoed through the wood, while the gunnery-lieutenant's voice gave the order, "Retire on your supports."

"Guess Gunnery Jack imagines we're on a bloomin' field day," grumbled one of the bluejackets, and, although he wistfully eyed the suspicious willow, he hastened to obey orders.

A petty officer hurried between the undergrowth, hot and panting with his exertions.

"He's collared," he announced. "They're bringing him to the guard-room up on the bridge."

"Who's the lucky blighter?" inquired one of the disappointed twain.

"Mike O' Milligan," was the reply. "He put the kybosh on the Tin Hat before he had time to look round."

"Then the spy is feeling sorry for himself," remarked Farrar, who had overheard the conversation. "O' Milligan is the champion heavyweight boxer of the old 'Tantalus,' and there are a few nimble lads with the gloves in our ship's company."

"The blighter gets no pity from me," declared Holcombe. "I remember a yarn my skipper told—— Hullo! here's the dog."

The St. Bernard, with a couple of feet of chain trailing from its collar, bolted straight up to the two subs. Giving Holcombe a preliminary sniff the animal turned its attention to Farrar, thrusting its muzzled head against his hands.

"The poor beast is horribly thirsty," he remarked. "I'll take his muzzle off."

"Better be careful," cautioned Holcombe. "Hanged if I'd like to feel those teeth."

"You see," rejoined Farrar, and bending over the animal he unloosened the tightly fitting strap that secured the muzzle.

The dog barked joyously and, wagging his tail, followed his benefactor to the stream, where it drank "enough water to float a t.b.d.," according to Holcombe.

Suddenly the dog stood with its body quivering with excitement and its eyes fixed upon some object on the opposite bank. Then it gave vent to a low, deep growl as the willow branches rustled audibly.

"What's up, old boy?" asked Farrar. "He's spotted something," he added, addressing his companion.

"A water rat, most likely," rejoined Holcombe casually. "Come on; if we want to see anything of the prisoner we'd better crowd on all sail."

"And the dog?"

"Bring him along, too; he's apparently taken a fancy to you, Slogger. Keep him as a mascot. We have a bulldog, a Persian kitten, and a mongoose already given us for the 'Antipas.' 'Sides, there's heaps of room on board your packet."

The St. Bernard offered no objection to the decision; in fact, he signified his approbation by means of a succession of deep-throated barks when Farrar called him to heel. Then as docilely as a pet lamb the newly acquired mascot followed the two subs out of the wood.

Already the captive had been carried to the guard-room. The gunnery-lieutenant and Engineer-Commander Curtis were within, while the bluejackets, drawn up a short distance from the entrance, were standing at ease.

"Well done, O' Milligan!" exclaimed Farrar, for the pugilistic A.B. was in the sub's watch-bill. "How did you manage to nab the fellow?"

"Sure, sorr," said the Irishman, "Oi saw him trapesin' along the path, so Oi goes up to him. 'Now, be jabbers,' sez Oi, 'are you for comin' aisy an' quiet, or am Oi to dot you one?' 'The divil!' sez he. 'Sure,' sez Oi. 'There's nothin' loike bein' straightforward. Between you an' me an' gatepost, the Huns an' the Ould Gintleman are loike Murphy's pigs you can't tell any difference.' Wid that he tries the high hand—sort o' 'Haw-haw, d'ye know who Oi am, my man?' As if by bein' consaited he hoped to get to wind'ard of Mike Milligan. 'Come on, you Hun,' sez Oi, an' makes to grab his arm. Arrah! He swore loike a haythen an' tried to break away, so Oi just hit 'im on the point of his chin an' down he wint."

"And he hasn't recovered yet, sir," added another bluejacket. "O' Milligan did his job properly."

At that moment the gunnery-lieutenant, accompanied by the engineer-commander and the sergeant of the guard, came out of the building.

"Party—'shun!" ordered the former. "By the right—double."

The engine was whistling peremptorily. Disregarding the eager inquiries of his brother officers in the carriage the gunnery-lieutenant ordered his men to board the train, which, during the pursuit of the miscreant, had moved on sufficiently to enable the American troop train to pass.

As Farrar and Holcombe, accompanied by the St. Bernard, were about to enter the carriage the gunnery-lieutenant called them aside.

"Don't say too much about the business," he cautioned them. "We've made a deuce of a blunder, and I expect there'll be a holy terror of a row up-topsides. The unlucky bounder laid out by one of the bluejackets was a genuine major; both the sergeant and the corporal of the guard were certain on that point. It is an unfortunate coincidence, and what is worse the fellow we went after has got away. Whether they catch him or not rests with the military and the civil police. We did what we could, and did it jolly badly."

"After all," remarked Farrar when the two chums were once more seated in the compartment, "my way, although drastic, would have been better than this fiasco; and I guess that poor blighter of a major would think so too if he had the choice between a punch on the jaw from a champion boxer or spending a couple of hours under escort with a dozen other Brass Hats to keep him company."

"It was a bit of excitement, if nothing else," said Holcombe.

"And I've found a jolly fine dog," added the R.N.V.R. sub, patting the huge animal's head. "I'll call him Bruno... and I don't think we'll need this again."

And he hurled the dog's muzzle out of the window.

CHAPTER VI

VON LORINGHOVEN LEARNS NEWS

AT a quarter to six Ober-Leutnant Otto von Loringhoven strolled into the lounge of the Imperial Hotel and, ringing for the waiter, booked two seats at a table for dinner. This done he carefully selected a choice cigar and ensconced himself in a large easy-chair. Ostensibly interested in the pages of a newspaper he was furtively taking stock of the other occupants of the lounge.

Von Loringhoven had had a really enjoyable day. He had done his level best to banish from his mind all thoughts of his dangerous and degraded profession. He appreciated the short respite from the mental and physical strain of commanding a U-boat. Until the evening he would take a well-earned holiday.

Accordingly he had made a few purchases in the little town of articles that were not readily obtainable by the simple expedient of looting a captured merchantman. Then, in possession of a small flask and a packet of sandwiches, he struck inland towards the wild and unfrequented moors.

Once or twice during the day he thought of von Gobendorff, and wondered whether his attempt had met with success. Not that he evinced any great concern over the business. The spy had not taken him into his confidence sufficiently to explain the details of his proposed attempt upon the troop train. There was once the haunting suspicion that should von Gobendorff be caught the consequences might be rather awkward for the ober-leutnant. Von Loringhoven had little faith in his fellow-countrymen; he would not be greatly surprised if the spy, in an endeavour to mitigate his deserved punishment, would give information to the British authorities to the effect that a German submarine commander was at large on Cornish soil.

Early in the afternoon von Loringhoven began to make his way back to the town. Taking a footpath he passed close to half a dozen German prisoners-of-war engaged in agricultural work.

In broken German he addressed one of them, inquiring whether the fellow would take the opportunity of escaping should such a chance occur. The broad-shouldered Bavarian shook his head emphatically. "No," he replied. "Why should I? We are well fed. After eighteen months on scanty rations in the hell of Ypres a man would be a fool to wish to go back over there."

The ober-leutnant resumed his walk, pondering over his compatriot's words. There were evidences in plenty that the German theory, that six months of unrestricted U-boat warfare would bring England to the verge of starvation, was very wide of the mark; and the prisoner's tacit assertion that he preferred to live and eat in England to fighting and semi-starvation for the sake of the Fatherland was striking evidence that the German submarine campaign was a failure in spite of its unprecedented savagery and frightfulness.

Before proceeding to the hotel von Loringhoven bought a paper. If he bought it with the idea of gleaning any important information he was grievously mistaken. The war news was confined to a few brief communiqués. The rest of the columns were taken up with local and county topics unconnected with the war, a number of advertisements, and a few carefully worded announcements of deaths in action of Cornishmen.

Long before the ober-leutnant had finished his cigar a fresh-complexioned, round-faced subaltern entered the room and, spotting a brother officer, began a conversation in tones loud enough to enable von Loringhoven to follow every word.

"I say," he remarked. "Have you heard anything about the attempt to blow up Poldene Bridge?"

"My sergeant said something to me about it," replied the other. "I didn't pay much attention to him, as he's a regular old woman for getting hold of cock-and-bull yarns."

"It's right enough," persisted the first speaker. "There was an explosion while the Navy Special was hung up on the bridge. Signals tampered with, I understand. No damage done, but evidently the fellow or fellows on the job knew what they were about, for a troop train filled with Yankees was due to cross almost at the same time. It's a mystery to me how these Huns get to know of the movements of transport and troop trains. All the week American transports are to be diverted from Liverpool to Trecurnow, as those rotten U-boats have been reported in force off the Antrim coast."

After talking on several other subjects one of the subalterns inquired, "Heard anything of your young brother recently? Dick, I mean. He was in the 'Calyranda' when she struck a mine, I believe?"

"Yes, he's appointed to the 'Tantalus.' She's leaving Trecurnow on Thursday for Hampton Roads."

"Escorting duties?"

"On the return voyage—yes. Outward bound they're taking a number of big pots to attend an Allied conference at Washington, I understand. At any rate, young Dick has to get a new mess-jacket. Thought he'd be able to do without that luxury until after the war. ...Oh, by the way, here's news. I was lunching yesterday with my cousin—you know, the lieutenant-colonel who won the D.S.O.—and he happened to mention——"

Von Loringhoven listened intently, smiling grimly behind his newspaper. From the tittle-tattle of a raw subaltern he was gleaning more intelligence than he could from a dozen journals, for the youngster seemed to take a special delight in letting the other guests know that he was in close touch with the Powers that Be.

From time to time the ober-leutnant glanced at the clock. It was now twenty minutes to seven. Von Gobendorff was considerably overdue, and von Loringhoven was feeling hungry.

"My friend is apparently unable to be present," he said to the head waiter. "You can serve me now. I suppose as a dinner for two has been ordered I must pay for both?"

"That is the rule of the hotel, sir," replied the man.

"And in that case I presume I can have a double allowance?"

The waiter shook his head and winked solemnly.

"Can't be done, sir," he replied. "'Gainst regulations. You'll pay for two dinners, I admit, sir; that's your misfortune."

"Then I suppose the extra meal will be wasted?"

"A drop in the ocean of waste, sir, I assure you," said the man confidentially. "Tons of waste down this part of the country. Take petrol, for example. I've a motor-bike of my own and can't use it, although half a gallon of petrol a week would be as much as I want. And yet the coastguards, when hundreds of cans were washed ashore along the coast, were told to wrench off the brass caps of the tins—useful for munitions, I suppose, sir—and chuck petrol and cans back into the sea. And I paid my licence to the end of the year."

"Hard lines," remarked the ober-leutnant. "But the nation's at war, you know."

"Quite true, sir," replied the man. "I wouldn't mind making sacrifices if I knew all the petrol was going to naval and military use—tanks and patrol boats and the like—but waste like I've been telling you makes me a bit up the pole. Ah, sir, you needn't worry about that second dinner, for here's Mr. Middlecrease."

The waiter hurried off, while von Gobendorff, well-groomed and debonair, greeted the ober-leutnant.

"Sorry I'm so infernally late, Smith," he exclaimed. "Must blame the trains. Missed my connection at Okehampton, don't you know."

The two Germans sat down to their belated meal, talking the while on commonplace topics.

They certainly made a faux pas in the way they gulped down their soup, but the rest of the diners, although they exchanged sympathetic glances, had never had the misfortune to visit German "bads" in pre-war days; otherwise they might have "smelt a rat."

Von Loringhoven paid the bill and carefully placed the receipt in his pocket-book. "It will be a souvenir of a pleasant evening," he remarked to his companion. "A certificate to the effect that I have invaded England, hein?"

It was close on nine o'clock when von Loringhoven accompanied the spy to his home. Once in von Gobendorff's study, with a thick curtain drawn over the door, the latter unburdened himself.

"Ach!" he exclaimed, stretching his limbs and yawning prodigiously; "I have had a nasty time, Otto. Often I thought I would have to forego this pleasurable evening in exchange for a prison cell."

"You bungled, then?"

"Perhaps. It was hardly my fault. I am inclined to blame Schranz. I deposited the explosive all right, but the signal did not fall within the prearranged limit. Consequently I had either to make a bolt for safety or stay where I was and get blown up. I chose the first alternative."

"And the explosion?"

"It came off," replied the spy. "Somehow the bridge was not destroyed. Why I know not. Then I was hotly pursued. That fool of a dog—I had taken the precaution of having one sent from London—nearly put me away, but just as I had given myself up as lost the men in pursuit were recalled. Then at the first opportunity I discarded my disguise—I was wearing two suits of clothes: a good tip, Otto, unless you happen to be wearing a military or naval uniform under your civilian's dress. Himmel! it was decidedly unpleasant in those saturated clothes, for I had been standing up to my neck in water for nearly twenty minutes."

"It was a wonder that your wet clothes did not give you away," remarked von Loringhoven.

"They certainly gave me a cold," admitted the spy, suppressing a sneeze. "You should have seen me, Otto, stripped to the skin in a secluded hollow, and wringing out my garments one by one. It was a chilly business donning the damp things, but I walked briskly over the moors until the wind dried them to a state of comparative respectability. Then I struck the high road towards Poldene station. There were patrols and police out, but they never suspected me, as I was proceeding towards the scene of my frustrated attempt. And here I am. Well, have you picked up any information?"

The ober-leutnant shook his head. He was too wily a bird to impart an important piece of news even to a compatriot, so the matter of the date of departure of the "Tantalus" was withheld.

"No," he replied. "I have been having a rest, that is all. I go back to my work with renewed zest. I drink, von Gobendorff, to the confusion of England. Hoch, hoch, hoch!"

At half-past ten the ober-leutnant left the house, declining the spy's offer to accompany him part of the way. Without encountering a single person, for he knew the actual times at which the cliff patrol passed, he gained the little cove. By the luminous hands of his watch he had nearly an hour to wait, and waiting in the darkness, with only the sullen thresh of the surf and the eerie cries of innumerable seabirds to break the silence, was tedious, especially as he dared not smoke.

Presently, above the noise of nature's handiwork, came the bass hum of an aerial propeller. The ober-leutnant gazed upwards between the narrow walls of the rocky inlet.

"Too slow for a seaplane or a flying-boat," he muttered. "It must be one of those infernal coastal airships. Himmel! I hope she hasn't any suspicions of U 254 lying off the shore. I've waited quite long enough to my liking. Ach, there she is. I thought so."

At an altitude of less than two hundred feet above the summit of the cliffs the "Blimp" glided serenely, the suspended chassis being invisible against the greater bulk of the grey envelope that showed darkly against the starlit sky.

The airship was flying against the wind, and was proceeding at a rate not exceeding fifteen miles an hour "over the ground"—the ground in this instance being the sea. At that comparatively slow speed she appeared to the watcher in the depths of the cove to be almost stationary, and the sight filled him with misgivings.

Suddenly a searchlight flashed from the vigilant guardian of the coast, stabbing the darkness with a broad blade of silvery radiance. Instinctively von Loringhoven averted his face. He could see the grotesquely foreshortened shadow of himself cast upon the rocks. He wondered whether an alert observer had him "fixed" with his powerful night-glasses. He was afraid to move lest his action would satisfy any lurking doubt in the mind of the watchers above. Supposing the Blimp sent a signal to the nearest coastguard station, reporting a suspicious character in the cove?

All these thoughts flashed through the ober-leutnant's brain in less than twenty seconds. Then the penetrating beam swung like a giant pendulum, sweeping every square yard of sea within an arc of two miles' radius.

The ray ceased its movements and was directed upon a dark object lying at a distance of less than five cables' lengths from the shore. Von Loringhoven's breath came in short gasps. Momentarily he expected to see the flash of a gun or hear the sharp explosion of compressed air that would send an aerial torpedo on its death-dealing errand.

By degrees the ober-leutnant's eyes grew accustomed to the glare, and he made the discovery that the object was a two-masted fishingboat that, having been unable to reach harbour before "official sunset," was endeavouring to make port and risk divers pains and penalties for being under way during prohibited hours.

Down swept the airship, her searchlight relentlessly focussed upon the delinquent, until the officer in charge of the Blimp was able to discover the registered number of the boat and shout by means of a megaphone a promise that the master of the fishing-boat would be "hauled over the coals" at no very distant date.

This duty performed the airship rose and, turning, travelled "down wind" at high speed, whereat von Loringhoven heaved a deep sigh of genuine relief.

The hour of midnight passed and the ober-leutnant still waited. He was beginning to think that he was marooned on hostile ground and that the submarine had met with misfortune, when a dark shape glided round the rocks at the entrance to the cove.

"You are late!" exclaimed von Loringhoven hastily, as the coxswain of U 254's canvas boat brought the frail cockleshell alongside the rough jetty.

"It was a cursed English airship that detained us, Herr Kapitan," replied the man. "We had to submerge. We thought we were detected; only, it seems, it was a fishing craft that occupied the airship's attention."

Not another word did von Loringhoven speak until he gained the U-boat's deck.

"How stand the accumulators, Herr Kuhlberg; and what petrol have we on board?"

The unter-leutnant gave the required information.

"Just enough to take us home, Herr Kapitan," he added tentatively, for the prolonged cruise—already U 254's time limit was exceeded—was jarring his nerves very badly.

"Perhaps," rejoined von Loringhoven, with a sneer. "Meanwhile we are going to lie off the Scillies until the end of the week, so reconcile yourself to that, my friend."

"You have heard something, then, Herr Kapitan?" asked the unter-leutnant eagerly, his despondency departing at the prospect of doing a great deed—torpedoing a huge unarmed liner, perhaps.

"I have," replied von Loringhoven. "The English cruiser 'Tantalus' leaves Trecurnow on Thursday with a number of delegates for a conference at New York. The 'Tantalus' is, of course, armed, and, as you know, English gunners shoot straight. How does that suit you?"

Hans Kuhlberg's attempt to put a brave face upon the matter was a failure. His superior officer smiled disdainfully, for there was no love lost between the two.

"I am going to turn in now," he added. "You know the course; keep her at that until you sight Godrevy Light and then inform me."

CHAPTER VII

BRUNO'S ESCAPADE

AT eight o'clock on the following Thursday morning H.M.S. "Tantalus" cast off from her moorings in Trecurnow Roads and stood down Channel.

She was an armoured cruiser of an obsolescent type, and although not powerful enough to be of material use to the Grand Fleet, was admirably adapted to the work allotted to her—ocean patrolling and escorting transports to and from overseas. Since the outbreak of war her steaming mileage worked out at a little over 200,000 miles, or roughly eight times the circumference of the earth. During this stupendous task her engines had given hardly any trouble, and never once had had a serious breakdown—a feat that was rendered possible solely to the unremitting care and attention of her engineering officers and ratings. Sixteen years previously her contract speed was twenty-five knots; and when occasion required her "black squad" could whack her up to her original form.

On either side of the cruiser a long, lean destroyer kept station, for the "Tantalus" was to be escorted through the danger zone. Waspish little motor patrol boats, too, were dashing and circling around her, their task being to put the wind up any lurking U-boat that was bold enough to risk being rammed or blown up by depth charges by the attendant destroyers.

"Mornin', Slogger, old bird," exclaimed a voice. "Looking for your friend, Holcombe?"

Farrar, whose turn it was to be Duty Sub of the Watch, was levelling his glass at one of the destroyers. Upon hearing himself familiarly addressed—for the nickname of schooldays still stuck—he turned and placed the telescope under his arm.

"Mornin', Banger," he replied. "No; I knew it was no use looking for Holcombe on that packet. The 'Antipas' is of a later type; besides, she's not completed commissioning yet. How's that dog of mine behaving?"

Dick Sefton was another of the "Tantalus's" sub-lieutenants, a short and heavily built fellow whose full face was brimming over with good-humour. He was an R.N.R. man, called up for duty as a midshipman on the outbreak of hostilities. For some obscure reason his messmates had nicknamed him Banger, although there was a suspicion that those tinned delicacies, otherwise known as "Zeppelins in the Clouds," had something to do with it. Sefton had already had a fair share of adventure. He had been torpedoed twice—once in the AEgean Sea, and again somewhere within the Arctic Circle; he had been in a tough engagement between two armed merchantmen, and had taken part in a hand-to-hand struggle between the crews of a U-boat and a possible victim that proved to be a veritable Tartar. He had braved the rigours of two winters in the North Sea on Examination Service, and had spent four days without food and a very little water in an open boat under the blazing sun in the Eastern Mediterranean. Yet in spite of hardships and perils his cherubic smile still clung to his homely features. Not a soul of the "Tantalus's" ship's company could truthfully say that he had seen Banger in a bad temper.

"Bruno is in great form, absolutely," replied Sefton. "During the absence of his worthy master, namely yourself, he has been improving his acquaintance with the rest of the mess—and their effects."

"Eh?" exclaimed Farrar. "Been in mischief?"

"The casualties to date are—killed: one pot of honey belonging to little Tinribs, two gramophone records, the property of the mess, and Johnson's pneumatic waistcoat; wounded: the messman and one of the marine servants while attempting to rescue the before-mentioned waistcoat under a heavy fire; missing: the contents of a tin of condensed milk and a plate of curried fowl. The messman and the marine contemplating reprisals, Bruno merely beat a strategic retreat to the padre's cabin. Latest reports state that the animal, possibly owing to a surfeit of condensed milk and curried fowl, combined with the unaccustomed motion of the ship, strongly resembles the present state of Russia; to wit, violent internal disorder. So, my festive Slogger, you'll have something to answer for."

"By Jove!" ejaculated Farrar. "I hope the padre won't complain to the commander. I can square the messman and make it all right with the rest of the mess, but the chaplain——"

"Plenty of time for that," resumed Sefton. "There are indications that the padre is in a state of siege. Bruno is lying on the floor of the cabin and against the door. The padre is sitting on his bunk and cuddling his knees. Every time he tries to get out Bruno growls, although I fancy that the animal's malady is responsible for that. The awkward part of the business is that the padre is mortally afraid of dogs. They are his pet antipathies. A yapping little terrier would give him cold feet, so you can imagine what effect Bruno would have on him."

"For goodness' sake, Banger, hike the animal out of it," replied Farrar. "I can't leave the deck, you know."

"I'll do my best," replied Sefton. "It is indeed fortunate that our Fleet Surgeon underwent a course in the Pasteur Institute. Do you happen to know whether a fat fellow is more susceptible to hydrophobia than a thin one? If so, I'll shunt Jenkyns on to the job."

Sefton departed upon his errand, while Farrar, wondering what the outcome of Bruno's escapade would be, made his way to the weather side of the navigation bridge.

The "Tantalus" was now well on her way down Channel. The Wolf Lighthouse, rising like a slender shaft from the sea, lay broad on the starboard beam. The motor patrol boats, having reached the limit of their station, were hoisting the affirmative pennant in answer to a signal for the cruiser to part company. From the as yet invisible Scillies another flotilla of patrol boats was approaching to take over escorting duties until the cruiser with her cargo of important civil personages was beyond the dangerous "chops of the Channel."

On board the "Tantalus" the utmost vigilance was maintained, the escorting destroyers notwithstanding. The six-inch and light quick-firers on the upper deck were manned ready to open fire at a moment's notice, should the sinister, pole-like periscopes of a U-boat show above the surface.

Every possible precaution had been taken to safeguard His Majesty's ship, and the party of civilians who, under Providence, were entrusted to the care of one of the units of the Great Silent Navy. The members of the deputation were standing on the after bridge, watching with absorbed interest the stately progress of a huge flying-boat that was making her way back to Trecurnow. Already that morning the sea had been explored for miles on either side of the cruiser's course, and the aerial scout had wirelessed to the effect that no hostile submarine had been sighted.

Within the microphone room on the fore bridge an alert petty officer stood with the receivers clipped to his ears, listening for any suspicious sound that might emanate from the churning of a U-boats propeller; but beyond the rhythmic purr of the engines of the two destroyers not a sound of machinery in motion in the vicinity of the cruiser was audible.

In less than ten minutes Sefton returned.

"A proper lash up, Slogger," he announced. "Bruno's gone and done it this time."

He paused to note the effect of his words.

"Out with it, man!" exclaimed Farrar. "Don't say he's put the padre out of action."

"He has," said Banger, with an extra special grin.

"Bitten him?"

"I don't think so," replied Sefton. "In default of definite evidence the answer is in the negative."

"Then what has the dog done?"

"Well, to express the matter in a delicate way," continued Sefton slowly and deliberately, "Bruno has been taken violently ill in the padre's sanctum."

"Did you hike him out?"

"Who—the padre or the dog?"

"Either—or both."

"Couldn't," was the exasperating reply.

"Why not, dash it all?"

"Simply because I wasn't equal to the job. Neither are all the marine servants nor the best part of the carpenter's crew. The Bloke's (commander) gone to inspect the place, so all the fat's in the fire."

"Is Bruno showing temper, then?" asked his master anxiously.

"No; he's as quiet as the proverbial lamb."

"Look here, Banger!" exclaimed Farrar. "Can't you pitch a straightforward yarn without my having to drag it all from you in bits?"

"All right," replied Sefton. "It's like this. By some means—possibly Bruno rubbed against the door—the door's bolted on the inside. The padre won't muster up courage to let himself out, and the mob outside can't get in. The carpenter's mate is going to take out the jalousie—and the door's made of steel, remember. I have an idea—— Hullo, here's the Owner. I'm off."

Catching sight of the oak-leaved cap as the captain ascended the starboard ladder, Sefton promptly dived down the ladder on the port side, while Farrar, smartly saluting, awaited the approach of the controller of the destinies of nine hundred officers and men forming the "Tantalus's" ship's company.

"Where's the officer of the watch, Mr. Farrar?" asked the skipper. "In the chartroom, eh? Very good, carry on. Inform Mr. Sitwell that a wireless has just come through from the Admiral, Trecurnow Base. The escorting destroyers are to return; we are to shape a course for Queenstown and await further orders. What are we making?"

"Eighteen knots, sir."

"Increase to twenty-two, then.... What's that—signalling?"

"Destroyers request permission to part company, sir."

"Hoist the affirmative. All right, Mr. Farrar. Keep me well posted should anything untoward occur."

The captain left the bridge and the sub communicated his instructions to the lieutenant on duty as Officer of the Watch.

"Jolly rummy," commented Mr. Sitwell. "Did the Owner look at all surprised?"

"Not so far as I could see," replied the sub.

"Then I expect the Commander-in-Chief has had warning that there's a swarm of U-boats off the Irish coast.... Starboard four, quartermaster."

The destroyers had flung about and were tearing off in the direction of Trecurnow Harbour; the Scilly patrol had been left astern, and the "Tantalus" was alone in the midst of a waste of white-topped waves. She was now beginning to follow a zigzag course—a precaution invariably taken when within the U-boat zone.

Nigel Farrar felt convinced that the captain was uneasy in his mind on the subject of the wireless orders. In view of the presence of diplomats and other Government Civil Officials on board, the peremptory removal of the destroyer escort seemed very bad policy. But the orders had been given in secret code, and had to be obeyed without demur.

"Now, then, old bird, foot it!" exclaimed Sefton, as he reappeared on the bridge. "Anything to report?"

Farrar glanced at his watch. To his surprise he found that the last hour had passed with great rapidity. His work was now at an end; his relief had arrived to take on the duties of Sub of the Watch, while the Officer of the Watch had also turned over his responsibilities to another lieutenant.

At the first opportunity the sub hastened to the half-deck, where, outside the padre's cabin, a number of perspiring men were still busily engaged in removing the steel lattice work, known as a jalousie, from that officer's cabin door. Standing in a semicircle around them were all the midshipmen not on duty, taking no pains to conceal their amusement at the naval instructor's discomfiture. On the fringe of the ring stood the commander and three or four other wardroom officers, the former eyeing with grim displeasure the disfigurement of this part of the "internal fittings" of one of His Majesty's cruisers.

Through the slits of the jalousie came sounds of the padre, breathing stertorously, and the deep snores of the dog, who, having "mustered his bag," was sleeping the sleep of exhaustion.

"Can't you unbolt the infernal door, padre?" shouted the commander impatiently. He had asked the same question half a dozen times already, and the monotony of the request was beginning to jar the already overstrung nerves of the chaplain.

"Heaven forbid," he muttered. "My calling urges me to do the very opposite."

"It strikes me, sir," remarked the first lieutenant, addressing the commander, "that we have here an example of the lion and the lamb lying down together."

The pun—for the padre's name was Lamb—fell upon deaf ears as far as the commander was concerned, although the midshipmen smiled broadly at the popular Number One's wit.

"Look alive, there, men!" the commander exclaimed impatiently. "Don't waste the whole day getting that frame unstowed."

The carpenter's crew "bucked up" at these words. Truth to tell they had been proceeding leisurely at their work. The last bolt was removed and the jalousie fell away from the surrounding steel frame. One of the men, thrusting his arm through the aperture, shot back the catch of the door.

"Call the brute away, Mr. Farrar," said the commander.

Before the sub could approach the door to secure his troublesome pet, a violent concussion shook the ship from stem to stern. The electric lights on the half-deck went out, plunging the enclosed space into semi-darkness, while the sudden upheaval of some 14,000 tons of deadweight resulted in capsising almost every member of the party outside the padre's cabin.

"They've got us this time!" ejaculated the first lieutenant dispassionately.

And less than eight hundred yards away Ober-Leutnant Otto von Loringhoven was expressing similar views concerning the expected result of the impact of two Schwartz-Kopff torpedoes against the side of H.M.S. "Tantalus."

CHAPTER VIII

TORPEDOED

IT was some moments before Sub-Lieutenant Farrar realised the disconcerting fact that the cruiser had been torpedoed. He was dimly conscious of a rush of feet overhead and a confused scramble as his companions sorted themselves out in the dim atmosphere of the half-deck. He was aware that Bruno was licking his hand, and that holding on to the animal's collar was the padre—transformed into one of the coolest men of the crowd.

On the upper deck the quick-firers were barking angrily, the gun-layer letting rip at a dozen different purely imaginary objects that had resolved themselves into the periscopes of a swarm of U-boats. Barefooted seamen and booted marines were pouring through the hatchways—not under the blighting influence of panic, but rather with a desire to see what was going on.

Just as the sub gained the poop at the tail-end of a pack of wildly excited midshipmen a marine bugler sounded the "Still."

Not in vain had months of discipline been drilled into the crew of the "Tantalus." Every man stood rigidly at attention, the babel of voices ceased as if by magic, and the only sounds that broke the silence were the rapid crashes of the quick-firers, the hiss of escaping steam, and the inrush of water through the gaping hole in the ship's side fifteen feet below the waterline.

The "Tantalus" had received a mighty blow. Whether it were sufficient to sink her was yet to be determined. One torpedo had missed its mark, but the other had exploded in No. 1 stokehold on the starboard side, almost instantly flooding that compartment and killing most of the stokers on duty in that part of the ship.

For five long-drawn-out minutes the men stood motionless, while the captain, commander, and officer of the watch conferred and awaited reports. From the engine room came the information that the port engine was still intact, thanks to the longitudinal bulkhead. The starboard engines were almost useless, owing to the loss of pressure. In the flooded stokehold gallant volunteers were groping in the swirling water and risking death from the deadly fumes in an endeavour to rescue their luckless comrades.

The cruiser was heeling badly to starboard. Although her steering gear was unaffected she had begun to circle under the impulse of the port propeller; until steadied on her helm, she floundered through the water at the greatly reduced speed of five and a half knots.

"We'll save the old ship yet, I fancy," remarked the captain to the commander. "It will be best, I think, to muster all hands aft. Is steam available for the boat-hoists?"

"Yes, sir," replied the commander.

"Very good. It's well to know that in case we have to hoist out the boom-boats. Pass the word for the men to fall in."

The shrill trill of the bos'uns' mates' pipes and the hoarse orders, unintelligible to the civilian element on board, had the result of clearing the lower deck in a remarkably short space of time. Clad in a motley of garments the watch below surged through the doorways in the after-bulkhead of the battery, each man with his pneumatic life-saving collar and in many cases a small bundle containing his cherished possessions. A petty officer appeared with a Manx cat in his arms; a yeoman of signals with a parrot that persisted in screeching choice lower-deck epithets at a piebald monkey; a corporal of Red Marines was grasping a cage containing a couple of canaries; while it would be impossible to guess with any degree of accuracy how many men had pets securely hidden in their jumpers.

The ship had now slightly recovered her heel and evinced no tendency to capsize. A course was now being shaped for the North Cornish coast, in the hope that the vessel could be beached or, at least, anchored in shallow water. Very sluggishly she forged ahead, the bent plates in the vicinity of the hole made by the torpedo requiring a considerable amount of helm to counteract the inclination of the ship to turn to starboard.

The din of the quick-firers had died away. Cheerful optimists there were amongst the crew who felt certain that the U-boat had been properly strafed, but there was no evidence to confirm their belief. As a matter of precaution the guns were still manned, while the wireless, which had been temporarily deranged, was sending out appeals for aid.

The order was now given for the men to "stand easy." Pipes and cigarettes were lighted and conversation began, although curiously enough the present state of affairs was hardly discussed. The chief anxiety on the part of the ship's company appeared to be the possibility of having to "stand by" the vessel, or whether there would be general leave granted before the men returned to the depôt for commissioning another craft.

Parties were told off to go below and salve various articles. The paymaster was working heroically, directing the removal of the ship's ledgers, the men's "parchments "—the seaman's record during the course of his career afloat—and other documents. The "coin" also was brought on deck, buoyed lines being attached to the canvas bags, so that the money could be recovered should the "Tantalus" sink in comparatively shallow water. The Treasury notes were left severely alone, since others could be issued in lieu of the missing numbers.

Most of the ward-room and gun-room officers not actually on duty also went below, the former to their cabins and the latter to their "common room," in order to retrieve their small but personally valuable belongings. Amongst them went Farrar, with Bruno, not completely recovered from his indisposition, ambling in his wake.

At the foot of the ladder leading to the halfdeck the sub encountered the captain of marines, followed by two stalwart men carrying the ward-room gramophone.

"Hullo, Slogger!" exclaimed the captain. "Do you want to buy a clinking little motorbike? I've a beauty stowed away in the steerage flat. What offers for spot cash?"

"Half a crown!" offered the sub promptly.

"Make it four shillings and it's a deal," rejoined the marine officer laughingly. "Done. I'll write you out a receipt when we get ashore. By the by, Farrar, talk about devotion to duty under hazardous circumstances, one of those bright bounders (indicating the two marines who were just disappearing over the coaming of the hatchway) deserves the Iron Cross of the Nth Degree—and all on account of that ferocious beast of yours."

The captain patted Bruno's massive head, and whimsically eyed the sub.

"How was that?" asked Farrar, unable to restrain his curiosity.

"The door of the padre's cabin was open," continued the marine officer, "and on the floor was Private Puddicombe diligently carrying out pre-torpedoing instructions by mopping up the corticine, It seems to me that there'll be water enough and to spare in the Woolly Lamb's den before very long. Hullo! What's up now?"

The quick-firers were opening out again, the six-inchers punctuating the sharp detonations of the twelve-pounders.

Following the marine officer on deck Farrar was just in time to see the frothy wake of a torpedo that, missing the cruiser's port quarter by a few feet, was tearing at thirty knots, to break surface a couple of miles beyond its desired victim.

Eighteen hundred yards astern a terrific cauldron of foam marked the spot where a hostile periscope had been momentarily sighted. The U-boat had evidently seen that the cruiser was not hurrying to the bed of the Atlantic, and was doing her level best to hasten matters.

"Fritz is a bit of a sticker for once," remarked the engineer-lieutenant, catching sight of Farrar in the bustle and noise. "He usually makes himself very scarce after having got one home when there are quick-firers knocking about. How far is it to the nearest land, navigator?" he inquired of Buntline, one of the lieutenants who happened to be passing.

"A matter of two hundred fathoms under your feet, my lad," was the reply without a moment's hesitation.

"Not taking any," replied the engineer sub with a laugh. "And you'll find nobody asking for greengage jam."

A roar of laughter from the other officers greeted this sally as the discomfited lieutenant, unable to rap out a fitting repartee, vanished through the armoured door of the battery.

"What's the joke about greengage jam, Tommy?" asked Farrar.

"At tea last night," explained the engineer sub, "Old Frosty asked Buntline to pass the greengage jam. It is rather rough luck on Buntline that he's still a bit deaf after that little affair off Zeebrugge. At any rate he thought Frosty had said, 'I am an engaged man,' and proceeded to offer congrats to the fleet paymaster, who, as you know, is a 60 per cent. above proof St. Anthony. Bless my soul! What's that I hear? Only doing four knots now. Think we'll make land before dark?"

The "Tantalus" was slowly foundering. In spite of the continuous action of the powerful Downton pumps the water was gaining. The explosion had not only resulted in the flooding of No. 1 stokehold, but had started some of the plates in the for'ard bulkhead. The damaged metal wall had been shored up and a cofferdam of hammocks and other gear built up to strengthen the weak spot, but even then the precaution failed to do the work that was expected of it.

For four continuous hours the gramophone was grinding out its metallic notes under the indefatigable attentions of a private of marines, while the two corner men of the cruiser's minstrel troupe kept their messmates in roars of laughter. Even when confronted with the none too remote prospect of being "in the ditch" the imperturbable tars were in high spirits. The captain and officers let them "stand by," knowing that nothing more could be done to safeguard the ship, and confident that when the critical moment drew near the men would respond cheerfully and gallantly to the call of duty.

Presently a hoarse cheer came from the men on the fo'c'sle; the sound was caught up by their comrades aft as the welcome news was announced that the destroyers were approaching.

The destroyers were five in number. Four of them were of the E Class, while the fifth was one of the latest words in that type of marine architecture. Well clear of the others she was describing swift and erratic evolutions, for her look out had reported a periscope.

"The 'Antipas,'" ejaculated a gunner's mate upon the appearance of the swift, low-lying craft. "One of our mystery destroyers. It'll be all U P as far as Fritz is concerned if she gets a sniff in."

"And 'ere's a bloomin' Blimp buttin' in," added another petty officer, as the dull grey envelope of a coastal airship drew within range of vision. "She wants to chuck her weight about too, I guess. Wot price that strafed U-boat now?"

"We'll see something neat in a brace of shakes, chum," remarked the gunner's mate cheerfully. "They've started to dust the floor."

CHAPTER IX

THE SKIPPER OF THE "GUIDING STAR"

U 254 arrived at the position indicated by her kapitan-leutnant nearly forty-eight hours before H.M.S. "Tantalus" sailed from Trecurnow Roads. During the period of waiting for her anticipated victim the submarine remained almost inactive, although nearly a dozen merchantmen were sighted on the first day and fifteen on the second.

With more important ends in view von Loringhoven made no attempt to sink the vessels flying the red ensign, lest news of the U-boat's presence might be communicated to the naval authorities at Trecurnow.

There was one exception, however, and the ober-leutnant risked a torpedo on the chance of aiding rather than hazarding his piratical progress.

Just before sunset a steamer was reported about three miles to the sou'westward. Von Loringhoven, binoculars in hand, clambered upon the flat top of the conning-tower, and having searched the horizon with his glasses, focussed them upon the approaching vessel.

Satisfying himself that the tramp was alone, and noting the fact that she carried a puny gun mounted for'ard and perhaps one aft—although from the way the vessel was pointing it was impossible to verify the suggestion—von Loringhoven descended from his elevated position and shouted orders to the men on deck to go below.

"I am about to torpedo that ship, Kuhlberg," announced the ober-leutnant, after he had followed his men into the interior of the steel hull and had closed the watertight hatch in the conning-tower.

The unter-leutnant regarded his superior with undisguised surprise.

"Is it wise, Herr Kapitan?" he asked. "I thought you had decided not to trouble about any vessel until we have attacked the 'Tantalus'?"

"Do not question your commanding-officer's decisions," snapped von Loringhoven. "The vessel will be sunk without leaving a trace, and there will be few survivors. Those few I will make good use of during the next day or two."

"Gunfire, Herr Kapitan?"

Von Loringhoven turned away from his subordinate and jerked down one of the levers actuating the valves of the diving tanks. Hans Kuhlberg, thinking that the ober-leutnant had not heard the question, repeated it.

"Himmel!" growled von Loringhoven over his shoulder. "Where are your wits, Kuhlberg? That craft carries a gun; perhaps two. We could out-range her, of course, but then, there would be the delay before we sent her to the bottom."

The ober-leutnant did not think it worth while to mention that he had a wholesome respect for the comparatively short-range guns carried on tramps and drifters. Experience had taught him that lesson.

With the tips of her periscopes showing at intervals above the waves, U 254 manoeuvred until she was in a favourable position for firing a torpedo. At a distance of three hundred yards the chances of hitting the tramp were practically certain.

"Fire!" ordered the ober-leutnant.

The submarine tilted slightly as the powerful weapon left the starboard tube. Barely had the hiss of the compensating quantity of water rushing into the vacated tube ceased, when the dull roar of the exploding missile was borne to the ears of the piratical crew.

"Another cursed Englander gone," grunted von Loringhoven, as he ordered the ballast tanks to be blown.

Very cautiously, after a lapse of five minutes, the dealer of the recreant stroke poked her periscopes above water. As the ober-leutnant expected, the tramp was sinking rapidly. The force of the explosion, for the torpedo had struck her abreast of the engine room, had practically shattered the lightly built hull. Bow and stern were cocked high in the air, while amidships the frothy sea was pouring over the submerged deck.

One boat had already been lowered. Another had been swung out and the falls manned. The crew were waiting for something. Curious on that point, von Loringhoven peered intently through the eyepiece of the periscope. Presently he saw a man, waist deep in water, staggering aft, carrying the body of an insensible comrade on his back. So steep was the deck and so strong the swirling water that the devoted rescuer had all his work cut out to reach the boat, where willing hands relieved him of his burden.

The boat got away only just in time. Even as the lower blocks of the falls were disengaged, the doomed tramp slid beneath the waves, the davits just missing the laden boat's gunwale as the crew fended off with oars and boathooks.

Then in a smother of foam and a dense pall of smoke and steam the two boats were left tossing upon the waves, eighty miles from the nearest land, and without a friendly craft in sight.

The ober-leutnant deemed it quite safe to bring the U-boat to the surface. As soon as the submarine's deck was awash, von Loringhoven called away the guns' crews, and, followed by Kulhberg, he emerged from the conning-tower.

At the sight of the submarine bearing down upon the boats the survivors of the torpedoed tramp lay on their oars.

"What is the name of the ship we have sunk?" demanded von Loringhoven.

"The 'Guiding Star' of Newcastle, from Bahia to London with a general cargo," replied the master promptly.

"Where are your papers?"

"With the ship. We hadn't too much time," was the answer.

"Come alongside," was the ober-leutnant's next order.

The boats closed. The men had no option but to obey, but even the muzzles of the two quick-firers failed to terrorise them.

"You have had enough of the sea, captain," continued von Loringhoven mockingly.

"Not I," replied the master, a short, broad-shouldered man of about fifty, whose iron-grey hair contrasted vividly with his brick-red features, dark with hardly suppressed anger. "I'll put to sea again within twenty-four hours if my owners give me another ship. Next time I fall in with you I hope the boot will be on the other foot. It won't be my fault if it isn't."

The master of the "Guiding Star" had spoken his mind. It was indiscreet, and he knew it; but he came of a stubborn stock, that fears nothing either on land or sea.

"You amuse me, captain," said von Loringhoven, his thick lips curling ominously. "So much so that I want to have more of your company. Come on board."

The tough old skipper said a few hurried words to the mate, then, with an exhortation to his men to stick to it and keep together, he stepped out of the boat and gained the U-boat's deck.

"Take him below," curtly ordered the ober-leutnant, addressing two of his crew.

With folded arms von Loringhoven waited until the master of the "Guiding Star" was taken to a compartment in the after part of the submarine, and securely locked in. One of the two sailors returned and reported that the instructions had been carried out.

"You may go now," said the ober-leutnant to the crews of the boats.

The men pushed off and commenced rowing in the direction of the invisible land. The crew in one of the boats set to work to step the mast and set sail, calling to their companions in misfortune that they would take them in tow.

Von Loringhoven made his way to the navigation platform, where Kuhlberg was standing by the steering-wheel.

"Gunfire, Herr Kapitan?" asked the unter-leutnant.

"You have gunfire on the brain," replied the ober-leutnant. "We have made quite enough noise already. Order half speed ahead and port your helm."

The U-boat swung round, gradually increasing her way until her bows pointed towards the two boats.

"Steady on your helm," ordered von Loringhoven. "At that.... Full speed ahead!"

At fifteen knots the blunt bows of the modern pirate crashed into the foremost boat, rending the elm planking like matchboard. A few of the men who escaped being crushed by the enormous bulk of the murderous craft were left struggling in the water. Of these only one wore a lifebelt. Von Loringhoven had not noticed it when the boat was alongside. He signed to a petty officer standing aft. The Hun drew a revolver and, as the lifebelted seaman swept past, shot him through the head with as little compunction as a gamekeeper would have at killing a stoat or a weasel.

The rest of the survivors, finding themselves in the U-boat's wake, struck out for the remaining boat. It was an unavailing struggle for life, for, turning again, U 254 charged down upon the second of the "Guiding Star's" boats and the tragedy was re-enacted.

"Enough!" ordered the ober-leutnant, scanning the horizon, over which the shadow of night was rapidly drawing. "With the sea at this low temperature a man cannot last more than ten minutes."

It was about noon on the following day, when U 254 was gently forging ahead at seventy feet beneath the surface, von Loringhoven ordered the skipper of the "Guiding Star" to be brought to his cabin.

"Well, captain," began the ober-leutnant with a burst of assumed affability. "I am sorry that I was compelled to detain you. On the other hand we did all we could to assist your crew on their long voyage."

The skipper made no audible comment. If von Loringhoven imagined that he was ignorant of the cold-blooded tragedy he was grievously mistaken. The master of the tramp had heard the double crash as the U-boat collided with the two boats, and had formed his own conclusions—which happened to be perfectly correct.

"I must explain my reasons for receiving you as a guest," continued von Loringhoven. "We are now bound for Wilhelmshaven by the shortest route, which, as you know, is through the Straits of Dover. As I am under the impression that you were furnished with Admiralty directions concerning the course through the mine-fields you will be most useful to us as a pilot. I am certain that you would not throw away your life by withholding your assistance."

The skipper of the "Guiding Star" looked the Hun straight in the face.

"If that's what you've made me a prisoner for you might have spared yourself the trouble," he said pointedly. "As for the mine-fields, you'll fetch up against them right enough if you aren't sent to Davy Jones by the latest anti-U-boat appliance, which ought to be in full working order by now."

"What appliance is that?" demanded von Loringhoven uneasily.

"I can understand your anxiety, but I won't enlighten you further on the matter," replied the master of the "Guiding Star."

The ober-leutnant literally snarled. He was baulked, and he knew it. He had made the mistake of gauging the British merchant skipper's calibre with that of the Hun.

"You'll feel sorry for yourself, Englishman, when we arrive at Wilhelmshaven," he said.

"Which will be never," rejoined the prisoner. "You'll be trapped, whether you make up-channel or try to dodge round the Orkneys."

"And I need hardly remind you," continued von Loringhoven, "that if anything befalls this vessel you will most certainly perish."

"I am not afraid to die," announced the master in a tone that carried conviction. "My only regret is that I may have to put up with a crowd of skulking German pirates for messmates in Davy Jones's locker."

With an oath von Loringhoven levelled an automatic pistol at the old man's head. Only the pressure of a few ounces upon the sensitive hair-trigger stood between the tramp's skipper and death. Not a muscle of his features moved as he calmly eyed the muzzle of the powerful weapon and the sardonic face of the pirate behind it.

Again von Loringhoven had made an error. He had failed entirely to intimidate or terrorise his helpless captive, and he was now on the horns of a dilemma. He did not want to shoot: it would come in handy to have a hostage should he find himself in a tight corner; on the other hand, once having levelled the pistol he could not without loss of dignity put the weapon down.

"I give you twenty seconds to agree to my proposal," he said.

"You mentioned a good many proposals," replied the skipper of the "Guiding Star" sarcastically. "Which one do you mean?"

"To give us the British Admiralty sailing course."

"I'll see you to Hades first!" declared the prisoner.

Von Loringhoven began to count—slowly, in the hope that the Englishman's spirit would be broken under the prolonged mental strain.

Suddenly there was a peremptory knock at the cabin door, and in answer to an invitation to enter a petty officer appeared.

"Your pardon, Herr Kapitan, but Unter-Leutnant Kuhlberg ordered me to inform you that the English cruiser is in sight."

"Very good," replied the ober-leutnant. "Tell a couple of hands to lock this schweinhund in the empty store-room."

He waited until the prisoner had been removed, then snatching up his binoculars he hastened to bring the submarine awash. Five miles away was a large, grey four-funnelled cruiser. She had just altered helm on a zig-zag course, and her new direction, if maintained, would bring her within torpedo range of U 254.

"That is the 'Tantalus,'" declared the ober-leutnant. "Diving stations, there; launch home in both bow and broadside tubes. We'll have her right enough."

CHAPTER X

THE BLIMP TO THE RESCUE

"YOU'RE wanted on the 'phone, sir. Senior Officer Trecurnow Base is speaking."

Flight-Lieutenant Barcroft, V.C., was coming away from the airship sheds when a petty officer brought the urgent message that Sir George Maynebrace wanted him on the telephone.

The lieutenant was acting-commander of a "wing" of coastal airships stationed at Toldrundra Cove, within ten miles of Trecurnow Base. During the last few days "business" had been slack. Regularly the Blimps flew over their allotted patrolling districts without sighting a single one of the Kaiser's underwater boats. It looked as if the German submarine had given up the chops of the Channel as a bad job.

It was a great blow to Billy Barcroft when, consequent upon injuries received in a seaplane raid, the Medical Board refused to allow him to fly again in a machine heavier than air. As a partial compensation he was appointed to the airship branch, which, although lacking the opportunities of raiding, was not devoid of excitement and danger.

144A, the Blimp in which Barcroft had just completed the morning flight, consisted of a cigar-shaped envelope one hundred and twenty feet in length, and with an extreme girth of ninety feet. Suspended from the envelope by a ramification of light but enormously strong wire cables was a four-seated fuselage, similar to, but on a slightly larger scale than, the bodies of the battle-seaplanes. Fore and aft was mounted a machine-gun, while projecting through the floor of the fuselage was a complicated arrangement that at first sight looked like three drain-pipes with mushroom heads and a small crowd of "gadgets" thrown in. This was the aerial torpedo projector, a highly perfected apparatus capable of hurling its sinister missiles with uncanny accuracy. The 'midship section of the fuselage was taken up by the propelling machinery—a petrol motor coupled direct to the shafting of a huge aerial propeller.

Aft was the wireless installation, the petty officer occupying the dual rôle of machine-gunner and telegraphist. Underneath the chassis were the emergency water ballast tanks, but for normal alterations of altitude the Blimp depended upon her elevating rudders and also upon the reduction or addition of gas in the envelope—the reserve of hydrogen being kept under pressure in strong metal cylinders.

Hastening to the air-station office Barcroft entered the telephone cabinet and picked up the receiver.

"Yes, sir; Barcroft," he replied in answer to the senior officer's inquiry.

"Look here, Barcroft," resumed Sir George. "'Tantalus' has been submarined. She's still afloat. Her reported position is—— Got that down? Good. There's something very fishy about the business. The escorting destroyers had just returned under wireless orders from goodness only knows who. I am sending 'Antipas' and other destroyers to 'Tantalus's' assistance. I want a coastal airship to be on the spot with the utmost dispatch."

"Very good, sir," rejoined the flight-lieutenant.

"And," added Sir George Maynebrace drily, "I might add for your information that there are no British submarines operating within fifty miles of the given position. Good luck, Mr. Barcroft. Ring off."

Replacing the receiver Barcroft doubled back towards the sheds, adjusting his leather flying helmet as he ran. Half way across the large open space he encountered Kirkwood, the O.C. of Coastal Airship No. 144B, which was undergoing slight adjustments.

"Hullo, Bobby!" exclaimed Barcroft. "You're just the bounder I wanted. Look here, my sub's crocked—sprained his wrist. I had to push him into sick quarters not ten minutes ago."

"You want to pinch my sub, then, Billy?" asked Kirkwood with a smile.

"No," was the reply. "It's you I'm after, old man. The 'Tantalus' has been torpedoed, and I'm off to see what's to be done."

"Good enough!" exclaimed Kirkwood. "I'm ready. Grub on board, I hope?"

"Enough for a month on the Rhondda scale," replied Barcroft. "At any rate, there'll be sufficient even for your huge appetite.... Messenger!"

"Sir?"

"Rout out Anderson and Bell. Tell them we must get under way in five minutes."

Quickly the preparations for the urgent flight were completed. Squads of mechanics set to work, each man knowing exactly what was required of him, and doing it expeditiously and without undue noise. The petrol tank was filled by means of hose pipes communicating with the distant fuel reservoir, hydrogen was pumped into the pressure cylinders and thence into the envelope, until the manometer registered the requisite lifting power. Machine-gun ammunition was already on board, but the deadly aerial torpedoes, risky missiles to handle even with the safety caps in position over the sensitive detonating mechanism, had to be brought from a store at some distance from the sheds.

While this work was in progress, Barcroft and Kirkwood were busily engaged in testing controls and supervising the work of the mechanics. Long experience had taught them that "if you want a thing to be well done, you must do it yourself"; failing that, the next best course is personally to overlook the job.

Presently the two remaining members of the Blimp's complement hurried up. It occasioned them no surprise to be turned out almost as soon as one cruise had been completed. The airship patrol was much like the lifeboat service or a fire-brigade in the metropolis: its work was never ended. Beyond the ordinary routine there were emergency calls at any hour of the day or night.

"All ready?" asked the lieutenant.

He raised his hand. The motor began to purr, the swiftly revolving propeller churning up a cloud of dust that speedily rose as high as the recently vacated shed. The assistants, holding on to the restraining ropes, awaited the signal.

Barcroft lowered his hand smartly. With a motion not unlike that of a lift suddenly starting to ascend, the Blimp shot vertically upwards, the drag of her propeller being just sufficient to counteract the light head wind.

Not until the altitude gauge registered two hundred feet did the airship begin to forge ahead. Gradually the motor controls were opened out until the din of the whirling propeller grew terrific. At fifty miles an hour, and with the huge gasbag quivering under the enormous wind pressure, the Blimp tore to the aid of the torpedoed cruiser.

Kirkwood, who was searching the vast expanse of sea with his binoculars, raised the voice-tube to his lips.

"Say, old man," he exclaimed. "The destroyers have nearly twenty miles' start of us. I can spot them."

"The 'Antipas' is out," remarked Barcroft with a chuckle. "Won't old Tressidar be in a tear if we beat her! We'll try it, anyway."

Anderson and Bell, although ignorant of the precise nature of No. 144A's mission, were keenly on the alert. No doubt, in that mysterious way that supposedly secret information spreads with incomprehensible rapidity, the news of the torpedoing of the "Tantalus" was common property in and around Trecurnow; but beyond giving Kirkwood a brief account of what had occurred, Barcroft had refrained from mentioning the matter to any one at the airship station.

Twenty minutes after leaving terra firma the Blimp had left Land's End on her starboard quarter. Just within the western horizon could be discerned the cluster of small islands and rocks comprising the Scillies. North and south wisps of smoke gave evidence that, U-boats notwithstanding, the British mercantile marine was still unperturbed, for liners and tramps were to be seen either making for or leaving the Bristol Channel and English Channel ports.

"Are we gaining, do you think?" inquired Barcroft.

"Don't know, Billy, my festive," replied his second-in-command. "We seem to be overhauling the four older destroyers, but the 'Antipas' is a slipper. It's this head wind that's doing us in the eye."

The Blimp had struck a "rough patch." Tricky air currents, requiring all Barcroft's skill to counteract, made her plunge and yaw in a most erratic manner. At one moment the fuselage would be shooting ahead in practically a straight line, while overhead the gas envelope would be swaying from side to side like an ungainly pendulum; at another, the suspended car would be rearing and plunging like a dinghy rowed against short, steep seas; the while the breeze was whistling through the network of tensioned wires, the shrieking of the wind being audible even above the bass hum of the propeller and the noisy pulsations of the open exhaust.

Five hundred feet below the sea looked as calm as a mill-pond. Away to the west'ard patches of fog rendered observation a spasmodic business. Occasionally the horizon would be clearly visible, while a few minutes later a bank of thin vapour would form and blot out everything beneath it.

"There's the 'Tantalus'—a couple of points on our port bow!" exclaimed Kirkwood. "She's still afloat, then.... By Jove! She has a list."

Barcroft gave the Blimp the necessary amount of helm to bring her nose pointing directly for the painfully crawling cruiser.

"She's got it properly in the neck," he admitted. "We're gaining a bit, I think (his anxiety to beat 'Antipas' was almost an obsession). I can fancy Old Tress jumping about on the bridge like a cat on hot bricks, and working the engine-room johnnies like billy-ho."

"The wind's dropping; that's why we're gaining," said Kirkwood. "It's petrol motor versus turbine now, and let the best craft win. ...Hullo! the cruiser's opened fire again. Billy, my lad, we look like strafing that U-boat. Fritz is getting much too rash: he wants correcting."

"Stand by!" ordered Barcroft, addressing the aerial torpedo man through the voice-tube.

"Ay, ay, sir!" replied Anderson confidently. Then, bringing the tube into the nearest possible position to the horizontal, he carefully placed a sixty-pound missile into the breech, trained the weapon downwards, and stood by with his hand resting lightly upon the firing lever.

"All correct, sir," he reported.

Maintaining her former altitude the Blimp passed immediately above the badly listing "Tantalus," the crew of which raised a mighty cheer. The faint echoes of the true British greeting were wafted to the airship like a gentle murmur, in spite of the noise of the motor. Barcroft acknowledged the cheering with a wave of his hand, then, knitting his brows and compressing his lips, he centred all his attention upon the grim work that was about to be done.

Presently his eyes glittered with the light of battle, Three miles astern of the cruiser, and almost in the frothy wake of her labouring propeller, could be discerned an elongated, shadowy form, showing faintly against the greenish grey expanse of water. It was the U-boat running under the surface.

"Confound it!" ejaculated the lieutenant, as a dark grey swiftly moving vessel zig-zagged towards the spot where the U-boat's periscopes were last seen. "The old 'Antipas' is going to spoil my game."

A violent upheaval of foam, followed by a muffled detonation, announced that the destroyer had exploded a depth charge.

"You'll have to be a jolly sight more careful, Tressidar, old boy," soliloquised Barcroft. "You'll be blowing up the stern of your old hooker if you don't mind.... Ah! I thought so. You've missed your bird this time. Now, for goodness' sake fade away and let me have a look in."

"How's that?" morsed the wireless, as the operator of the "Antipas" sought advice and guidance from the Blimp.

"Missed!" replied the airship's wireless laconically. "If you can't do better than that, push off. You're in our light."

Ronald Tressidar, lieutenant-commander of the "Antipas," was nothing if not a sportsman. First upon the scene he had done his level best to send the U-boat to Davy Jones; failing at the first attempt, and not knowing the direction taken by the submerged pirate, he was not one to fail to recognise that the Blimp was better adapted to the task than the destroyer.

"Good luck!" flashed the aerial message from the "Antipas," as she steadied her helm and dashed away from the scene of her futile efforts.

The dark shadow was twisting and turning. The U-boat had dived so deeply that, viewed from the airship, she could hardly be distinguished from the water. It was enough for Barcroft: once on the trail it was a rare occurrence for him to be put off the scent when it came to Fritz hunting.

"Set to twenty fathoms!" he ordered.

"Twenty fathoms, sir!" replied Anderson, as he manipulated the fuse-timing that would allow the aerial torpedo to sink to the stated depth before detonating.

In his former seaplane career Barcroft had bombed his various objectives with uncanny precision. Good luck and sound judgment combined to make him a past master in the art of "getting there." But in aerial torpedo work against a submerged object a new factor had arisen—the effect of refraction. Unless a bomb-dropping machine—be it airship or seaplane—is directly over its objective, due allowance must be made for the deceptive qualities of air and water in conjunction. A simple experiment will easily show this. Take a bowl of water and place in it an object heavier than water—for example, a penny. Stand immediately over the bowl, and with a long rod attempt to "spear" the coin. Unless one's hand be wobbly the task will be easy enough. Next, take up a position so that an imaginary line from the eye to the penny forms an angle of about forty-five degrees with the horizontal. Repeat the thrusting operation and the coin will be missed handsomely, while the rod will appear to be sharply bent from the point where it enters the water.

Down to two hundred feet dropped the Blimp. The loss of altitude diminished the visibility of the presence of her prey, but there was just enough indication of the presence of the submerged submarine to enable Barcroft to risk a shot.

The motor was throttled down. Flying slowly and almost dead in the eye of the wind the airship was keeping pace with her blinded antagonist. It was like a keen-eyed hawk hovering over a stream and waiting to pounce upon an all unsuspecting fish.

Leaning over the side of the fuselage, Barcroft awaited the crucial moment. Then he raised his hand in a peremptory and unmistakable manner.

Instantly Anderson thrust down the firing lever. With a hiss of compressed air being released the powerful missile sped on its way, its course being clearly visible to the watchers from above.

A slight splash marked the torpedo's impact with the surface of the sea. Then, after a seemingly interminable wait, a dome-shaped mass of water was lifted bodily upwards, breaking and falling back in a smother of foam.

"Bon voyage, Fritz!" exclaimed Kirkwood.

CHAPTER XI

THE STRAFING OF U 254

"BOTH bow tubes—fire!"

Von Loringhoven's voice, pitched in a low guttural key, rose through the space of two words to an excitable crescendo. At last was the hour of his triumph; In spite of his ferocious zest at torpedoing helpless merchantmen, he realised in his inmost mind that it was but a sorry business; but now he had dared to torpedo a British cruiser—and had achieved his object.

Almost before U 254 recovered from the displacement of trim as the weapons left their tubes a muffled sound greeted the straining ears of the Huns.

"Only one, Herr Kapitan," exclaimed Unter-Leutnant Kuhlberg after a pause. "The other has missed."

"One will be enough," rejoined von Loringhoven. "Port your helm, quartermaster.... At that."

Blindly, and at a depth of thirty metres, the U-boat forged ahead. The ober-leutnant dared not risk rising, even for a momentary glimpse through the periscope, for the sharp crash of the cruiser's quick-firers told him that the "Tantalus," though sorely stricken, could still bite—and bite hard.

Not until the U-boat was two miles on the British vessel's port quarter did von Loringhoven bring her to the surface.

"They're firing at a piece of wreckage—what good fortune for us!" he exclaimed aloud without addressing his remark to any one. "Himmel! she has received her death-blow."

One by one the crew were permitted to take a peep at the hated English ship as she lay with a distinct list to starboard. Clouds of smoke and steam enveloped her for'ard portion, the wind driving the vapour in front of the slowly moving craft.

"She seems in no hurry, Herr Kapitan," the unter-leutnant ventured to remark. "They are not even hoisting out the boom-boats, although they have swung out the boats in davits."

"If they do not abandon ship very soon they'll have to swim for it," said von Loringhoven. "No sign of any of those cursed destroyers?"

Hans Kuhlberg revolved the eyepiece of the periscope and made a clear sweep of the horizon.

"None, Herr Kapitan," he replied.

Von Loringhoven nodded his satisfaction at the intelligence. He had resigned the periscope to the unter-leutnant and was engaged in fitting a new roll of films to his camera with the idea of taking a series of snapshots of the "Tantalus" in her last throes.

"That's all ready," he remarked, as he snapped to the back of the camera and wound the first film into position. "Isn't it about time we broke surface? How goes the cruiser?"

"She does not appear to be going at all in the direction we want her to, Herr Kapitan," answered the unter-leutnant, after a prolonged look through the periscope, "If anything she is about the same, sinking no deeper in the water. She is steaming ahead."

"Gott in himmel!" exclaimed von Loringhoven furiously, laying aside the camera and pushing his subordinate away from the object-bowl of the periscope. "Must we do our work all over again? Torpedo-room there!" he shouted through the voice-tube. "Launch home both tubes. Set the torpedoes to run at three metres this time.... Stand by."

Taking a compass bearing of the cruiser and ordinating her rate through the water, von Loringhoven gave orders for U 254 to dive to ten metres. Then, running at ten knots, in order to make the surface wake as inconspicuous as possible, he manoeuvred for a chance to deliver another blow.

It was a tedious, nerve-racking business. When at the end of an hour's cautious stalking the U-boat poked the tips of her periscopes above the surface their appearance was greeted with a hot fire from the alert gun-layers of the "Tantalus."

Von Loringhoven shuddered with apprehension as he feverishly tilted the diving rudders.

Not until the submarine was deep down did he heave a sigh of relief. Yet with dogged determination he resolved to make another attempt to give his foe the coup de grâce.

An hour and twenty minutes later U 254 prepared for another torpedo attack, but upon her periscopes breaking surface the ober-leutnant made the disconcerting discovery that a bank of sea-fog had swept down. The laboured churning of the cruiser's propeller could be faintly heard, but whether she was half a mile away or thrice that distance he had no means of ascertaining.

"Stand here, Herr Kuhlberg," was von Loringhoven's order as he stepped aside from the periscope. "My eyes are strained with peering into the object bowl. Report directly you see anything."

"It is clearing somewhat, Herr Kapitan," announced the unter-leutnant after a space of ten minutes. "I can just make out the cruiser. ...Ach! Donnerwetter! The English patrol boats. One is almost on us."

With an oath von Loringhoven shouted for the hydroplanes to be depressed, and for full speed ahead. Under the enormous resistance of the diving rudders the U-boat flung her stern clear of the water as she sought the depths. At a steeper angle than she had ever done before she sank, throbbing under the pulsations of her powerful electric motors.

Suddenly an appalling roar seemed to come from somewhere in close proximity to the hull. Caught by a tremendous swirl of displaced water, the submarine swung round like a straw in the grip of a foaming torrent. Many of the crew were hurled to the deck-plates, while von Loringhoven and the unter-leutnant saved themselves from being precipitated through the opening in the floor of the conning tower by ignominiously embracing the shaft of the periscope. With the concussion every light went out, the fuses being blown by the terrific shock.

Gasping in momentary expectation of finding themselves overwhelmed by an inrush of water the two officers could do nothing but cling tenaciously to their support, while from the terrified crew came a babel of shouts, oaths, and shrieks of dismay and despair.

Hans Kuhlberg was the first to recover to a certain extent from his state of panic.

"We are still alive, Herr Kapitan," he exclaimed, in a broken high-pitched voice.

"For how long?" added von Loringhoven.

"This darkness!... Are the motors still running?... Are we rising or sinking until the hull plates crack like an egg-shell under the exterior pressure? Himmel! Tell me that."

"The chlorine fumes!" exclaimed Kuhlberg, relapsing into his state of blind panic. "We will be stifled like——"

"Hold your idiotic tongue!" hissed the ober-leutnant. "Where is the torch?"

He was groping for a pocket electric lamp that was usually kept on a bracket on the wall of the conning tower. It was no longer there. So great had been the submarine's dip that the torch had fallen on the floor of the armoured box.

"Here it is, Herr Kapitan," said the unter-leutnant. "Ach! What a comfort is this light!"

"Silence below there!" ordered von Loringhoven, shouting to the still frantic crew. "You are making as much noise as frauen clamouring for meat rations. The worst of the danger is past if you will only keep your heads cool."

A glance at the depth gauge showed him that the U-boat was down to seventy-five metres—almost the maximum depth at which the hull was capable of withstanding the enormous pressure of water. A wrench at the diving-plane levers counteracted the tendency to dive deeper, and the submarine rose until she was within forty metres of the surface.

The motors were still running, but far from smoothly. The engine room was a blaze of blue light as the current short-circuited at half a dozen different points. It was indeed an inexplicable problem why the heavily charged air did not explode and complete the catastrophe.

"Both glands in the propeller shafting are leaking badly, Herr Kapitan," reported a mechanic.

"It cannot be helped," rejoined von Loringhoven. "At the depth we have just been, and with the shaking we have experienced, it is a marvel that things are no worse. All joints are sound?"

"No, Herr Kapitan; there is a steady trickle over the motors. It is that which accounts for the sparking across. Miller is taking steps to prevent the water spouting upon the dynamos."

The ober-leutnant flashed his torch upon the binnacle. The compass was useless. The concussion had cracked the thick plate glass and jerked the bowl completely off the gimbals. Nor was the gyro-compass in any better state. For purposes of direction the submarine had to rely solely upon luck. Without means of counteracting the side thrust of the propeller she would have a tendency to describe a succession of wide circles.

The thresh of the destroyer's screws overhead had now ceased. Things were looking a little more hopeful, since the submarine hunters had evidently lost touch with their quarry.

Just as hope was reviving another ear-splitting crash, out-voicing the previous detonation, shook the U-boat like a rat in the jaws of a terrier. Thrown first on one side and then on the other, she hurled her crew about like peas in a box, while everything that was not firmly secured was thrown about to add to the clatter and confusion.

"We are sinking!" shouted a dozen terrified voices. "The hull is giving way."

The hiss of inrushing water showed that the thick steel plates had been strained. Already the U-boat was settling towards the bed of the Atlantic.

There was just one chance, and von Loringhoven took it. At the imminent risk of being pulverised by the shells from the "Tantalus," or being rammed by the alert destroyers, he gave orders for all ballast tanks to be blown, at the same time elevating the diving rudders.

With both hands grasping the cam-action bolts of the lid of the conning-tower hatchway, von Loringhoven waited until the U-boat broke surface. With the perspiration rolling down his face, and in momentary anticipation of a salvo of shells landing on the exposed conning tower, the ober-leutnant darted for the open door, Kuhlberg and the quartermaster tying for the second place.

Less than two hundred feet above the now motionless U-boat floated Coastal Airship No. 144A, manoeuvring to repeat her strafing operations.

Promptly von Loringhoven raised his hands above his head in token of surrender, while the rest of the crew, who had taken their cue from the cowardly commander, stood in line with their arms upraised.

CHAPTER XII

PRISONERS OF WAR

"YOUR bird," wirelessed Lieutenant-Commander Ronald Tressidar, D.S.O., of H.M. Destroyer "Antipas."

"Thanks," was Barcroft's laconic reply.

"Stand by and pick up the pieces."

The "Antipas" approached rapidly, manoeuvring to keep bows on to the U-boat's stern. Fritz is a treacherous skunk to deal with. The modern pirates lack even the faint spark of chivalry that was to be occasionally met with in the German Navy during the earlier stages of the Great War. If the crew of the surrendered craft had an opportunity it was just possible that they might have let fly at the destroyer with a torpedo; consequently, in the knowledge that there was no sting in the submarine's tail, Tressidar took the precaution already referred to.

"Away whaler," ordered the lieutenant-commander. "I suppose the bounders have opened the sea-cocks, Mr. Holcombe, but make sure on that point."

The whaler was manned and lowered, with Sub-Lieutenant Holcombe in command. Only a distance of two cables' lengths separated the "Antipas" from Barcroft's prize.

"We surrender!" announced von Loringhoven, as the boat ran alongside U 254.

"So I understand," replied Holcombe. "If you've been trying to scuttle your hooker, take my tip and close the valves. We are about to take you in tow."

"Himmel!" ejaculated the ober-leutnant. "It is impossible. Every plate in the hull is strained."

"I'll satisfy myself on that point," rejoined the sub. "If you play any monkey tricks there'll be trouble for the whole crowd of you."

Agilely Holcombe boarded the submarine, bidding the whaler lay off at two lengths' distance and not to take off any of the prisoners until he gave orders.

"I suppose," he remarked, addressing the ober-leutnant, "that every man on board is now on deck?"

"Yes, every man," declared von Loringhoven in an assumed tone of pained surprise. "For why do you ask?"

"Because," replied Holcombe, looking the ober-leutnant straight in the face, "one of our destroyers picked up two survivors of the s.s. 'Guiding Star' yesterday. Something seems to have gone wrong with your spurlos versenkt plans, Herr Kapitan. One of the men stated that the master of the tramp was taken on board U 254 as a prisoner. Where is he?"

Von Loringhoven was trembling like a leaf.

"I had forgotten him," he stammered.

It was only half a truth. In the wild rush for the open air the ober-leutnant had overlooked the fact that the staunch old British merchant skipper was still locked up in one of the store rooms. Afterwards he had decided to let the prisoner stay, since his appearance might lead to awkward questions being asked. With the amount of water already in the hull of the submarine, he argued with himself, no inquisitive Englishman would dare to go below to investigate. But he was very much mistaken.

"It is not too late to make reparation for your thoughtlessness, Herr Kapitan," said Holcombe sternly. "Lead the way below to where the prisoner is confined. I will accompany you."

Von Loringhoven began to give instructions in German to one of his men, but the sub shut him up very promptly.

"No deputies are permitted for this business," he observed. "Lead on, Herr Kapitan. For the second and last time, I order you. Until the master of the s.s. 'Guiding Star' is rescued, not a man of the crew of this vessel will be removed."

Several of the Huns who understood English immediately offered their services, but Holcombe "turned them down." His anger was aroused and he meant to give the brutally callous ober-leutnant a practical lesson.

In desperation von Loringhoven descended the steel ladder in the interior of the conning tower, Holcombe following him closely. By the aid of an electric torch the sub realised that the ober-leutnant's description of the state of the prize was not exaggerated. Already the water was ankle-deep above the floor, surging sullenly with every sluggish motion of the slowly foundering U-boat. In a dozen places jets of water were squirting through the strained plates, the sound of splattering liquid echoing and re-echoing in the confined space.

With a master-key von Loringhoven unlocked the door of the prisoner's cramped quarters. If he had expected to see a terrified man he was mistaken, for the sturdy old skipper was at least outwardly unperturbed.

"Glad you've come, sir," he exclaimed as he caught sight of a British naval uniform. "I thought it was all U P with me this time, but there was one consolation: I wasn't going to Davy Jones with a crowd of dirty Huns for messmates."

"If you don't look sharp and get a move on you'll have one at all events," said Holcombe, indicating the still trembling ober-leutnant, who was casting anxious glances, first at his late prisoner and then at the steadily rising water.

Upon regaining the deck the sub ordered the whaler alongside. The master of the "Guiding Star" was assisted into the stern-sheets: he was too weak with the reaction following his release to trust to his own limbs. Then, one by one, the prisoners were ordered into the boat, while Holcombe, with the ensign of the prize under his arm, was the last to leave. He was only just in time, for the U-boat's deck was now awash. Before the whaler had rowed a hundred yards U 254 brought her career of black and ignominious piracy to a close by seeking a final resting-place on the bed of the Atlantic.

"It's fortunate for those fellows that you are on board the 'Antipas,'" was Lieutenant-Commander Tressidar's greeting to the master mariner. "My sub, Mr. Holcombe, had definite instructions on that point."

"Murderous swine!" growled the skipper of the torpedoed tramp. "I haven't a doubt that they deliberately killed my two boats' crews in cold blood, although I didn't see it myself."

"All but two," corrected Tressidar. "One of our destroyers found them clinging to the wreckage of a boat. The bow portion was cut clean away and floated bottom upward. The poor fellows had the sense to get underneath, and so balked the Huns. Yes, justice will be done, although, thank goodness, retribution is in worthier hands than mine."

There was no sloppy sentimentality in Ronald Tressidar's character. Knowing the U-boat's crew to be pirates and murderers he treated them with scant consideration. Von Loringhoven, Kuhlberg, and their men were ordered below and placed under lock and key, while the "Antipas," having hoisted in the whaler, started off to overtake the still manfully labouring "Tantalus."

"By Jove, Holcombe!" observed the lieutenant-commander to his sub as they stood upon the bridge and kept the torpedoed cruiser under observation by means of their binoculars, "the old hooker looks like fetching home after all. She doesn't appear to be listing much more. Wonder where Barcroft has bundled off to?"

"The Blimp did jolly well, sir," remarked Holcombe. "Only I can't quite make out why she didn't pulverise the U-boat."

"Nor can I," agreed Tressidar. "I'd dearly like to pull Barcroft's leg over the business, only he might retaliate by asking how we came to miss the strafed Hun with our depth charge. Hullo! there's the Blimp—still strafing something, I believe."

The airship, almost invisible against the grey sky, was about ten miles astern. Two faintly muffled reports indicated the present nature of her business.

"Any wireless from 144A?" inquired Tressidar of the telegraphist.

"No, sir."

"Then get a message through. Inquire if any assistance is needed."

It was five minutes later, by which time the Blimp was lost to sight, that the reply came through.

"No assistance necessary. Mine-laying sub-marine properly strafed this time."

The lieutenant-commander and the sub exchanged glances.

"That's a nasty one," remarked Tressidar. "Barcroft's evidently blaming us for getting in his way when he kippered U 254. I remember——"

"Look, sir," interrupted Holcombe. "The old 'Tantalus' is going."

Levelling his glasses in the direction of the stricken cruiser, Tressidar realised that her end was nigh. Apparently a bulkhead had given way, admitting an enormous quantity of water, for the vessel was heeling to an angle of forty-five degrees, while her stern was lifting until the blades of the remaining propeller were churning the water into cauldrons of foam.

While the "Antipas" was hurrying to the assistance of the foundering "Tantalus" the lieutenant of the destroyer mounted the bridge.

"Here's a curious bit of documentary evidence to find on the person of a Hun, sir," he remarked, tendering Tressidar a folded piece of paper. "While we were examining the pirate chief's belongings I came across this. It was in his pocket-book."

"H'm!" commented Tressidar. "This will want some explanation. A bill for a dinner for two at the Imperial Hotel, Trebalda. That's somewhere in North Cornwall, I believe. Let me see, what's the date? By Jove! The consummate cheek of the fellow. He was evidently ashore a little more than forty-eight hours ago."

"Up to some underhand mischief, I'll be bound, sir," remarked the lieutenant.

"Looks like it, Mr. Palmer," agreed the lieutenant-commander. "If you have no objection, I'll take charge of this scrap of paper. Meanwhile we have more urgent work in hand."

And he indicated the stricken cruiser, still battling gamely in her attempt to reach shallow water.

CHAPTER XIII

THE END OF THE "TANTALUS"

"SHE'LL do it, I fancy," remarked the officer of the watch as the sorely stricken "Tantalus" drew closer and closer to the shore.

The cruiser was making for a broad and comparatively shallow bay, now distant about two miles. Eight hours had elapsed since the torpedo had "got home," and the sun was sinking low in the west.

With two destroyers in close attendance there was little fear of loss of life unless the final catastrophe occurred so suddenly that the heroic engine-room officers and artificers and the stokers were trapped before they could make their way on deck. The remaining destroyers were patrolling at about two miles off, keeping a sharp look out in case another hostile submarine attempted to precipitate matters.

"It certainly looks as if we'll manage it," agreed Farrar. "Already we are in shoal water. The leadsman has just sung out, 'By the mark fifteen.'"

The lieutenant leant over the bridge rail. Thirty feet below and within a couple of yards of the sea was a small grated platform projecting over the side. In normal conditions the leadsman's place was twenty-five feet above the water-line, but the cruiser had settled to such an extent and was listing so much to starboard that there was hardly room for the men to swing the weighty lead before releasing it.

"That's promising," agreed the officer of the watch. "Slogger, my festive, I'll give you a fiver for the motor-bike you bought from the marine officer."

"Thanks—no; I'll hold on to it," replied Farrar. "It will come in handy when I get my leave."

Even as he spoke a heavy cloud of smoke and steam issued from the funnels and steam pipes. Almost at the same time the labouring thuds of the hard-worked propeller ceased to be heard. Above the hiss of escaping vapour rang out the strident shouts of the bo'sun's mates as the engine-room ratings were ordered on deck.

"That's done it!" exclaimed the sub. "Suppose you won't reopen your offer?"

"Dead off," replied the lieutenant, laughing.

"That motor-bike will give the mermaids a chance of joy-riding.... Hullo! we're preparing to anchor."

Deep down the "Tantalus" carried but little way. Already her motion through the water was hardly perceptible. On the fo'c'sle the hands were hard at work clearing away, setting back the compressors and slacking off the cable-holders.

"Stream the buoy!"

Smartly the canvas-clad seamen stepped clear of the cable as the watch-buoy and rope were thrown over the side.

"Let go No. 1 Bower!"

Deftly a hand told off for the purpose removed the pin of the releasing lever; to the accompaniment of a rumbling, metallic sound, as the chain surged through the hawse-pipe, the enormous anchor, weighing a little over five tons, went plunging to the bottom.

The "Tantalus" brought up in nine fathoms, to settle on the sandy bed until the time came for that gaping hole in her side to be repaired.

The moment had now arrived for the order "Abandon ship!" With absolute precision and deliberation the davit boats on the starboard side were lowered. The sick-bay cases, with stewards in attendance, were the first to be sent away; the members of the diplomatic mission followed; and then the seamen took their places in the boats until the latter had received their full complement. The boats in davits on the port side were useless, owing to the extreme list of the ship, while with the final break-down in the engine room, steam could not be used to work the main derrick. Nor was it deemed advisable to get out the boom boats by hand, as the additional weight of the heavy craft would endanger the already slight reserve of stability of the heeling ship.

"We may have to swim for it yet, old boy," exclaimed Farrar, stooping to pat Bruno's head, for the St. Bernard seemed to realise instinctively that all was not well on board and had stuck resolutely at his master's heels.

Weird noises from 'tween decks announced that the list was growing so excessive as to cause all slightly secured gear to break adrift. The men still drawn up on the quarter deck and fo'c'sle were with difficulty retaining their foothold, for the steepness of the planks resembled the roof of a house.

All eyes were fixed upon the solitary figure of the captain as he grasped the guard-rails of the bridge. Still the order, "Each man for himself!" was not forthcoming, for the destroyers were closing upon the sinking ship.

With hardly the loss of a square inch of paint the "Antipas" ranged alongside the cruiser's starboard quarter, Tressidar's chief anxiety being to guard against the danger of his command being pinned down by the outswung davits, for the upper blocks of the falls were within a foot or eighteen inches of the destroyer's rail, while the lower blocks were clattering against her side.

"Jump for it, lads!" shouted the captain.

Then, and only then, did the rigidly straight and silent ranks break. In fifteen seconds four hundred officers and men, together with the varied assortment of ship's mascots, were safely on board the "Antipas," while a like number gained safety on the destroyer that had run alongside the cruiser and ahead of her consort.

In strict accordance with the ancient and honourable custom of the Senior Service the captain was the last to leave the ship. Descending from the bridge he made his way aft, saluting his command for the last time as he gained the quarter deck. Then, with the water up to his knees as he reached the lee side of the listing deck, he, too, found temporary refuge on the destroyer "Antipas."

With their numerous super-complements the two destroyers backed clear of the sinking ship, coming to a standstill at a distance of three cables from the veteran cruiser.

The end was not now long in coming. More and more grew the heel, until the after-funnel, bursting its wire guys, crashed over the side. Two more followed in quick succession; then, with a terrific rending of metal and woodwork, the for'ard 9.2-inch gun and its armoured hood lurched overboard, throwing up a column of spray that o'ertopped the slanting fore-truck.

Relieved of the ponderous weight the "Tantalus" recovered slightly, but the righting movement was but temporary. The inrush of water was as loud as the concentrated roar of a dozen mill-streams, while ever and again came the explosion of compressed air as the bulkheads gave way under the irresistible pressure.

Then the after 9.2-inch followed the example of the for'ard one, the muzzle of the enormous weapon ploughing up a large portion of the quarter deck before it toppled over the side.

The ends of the lower signal yardarms dipped beneath the water; the main-topmast, snapping just above the fire-control platform, disappeared, taking with it a tangled mass of wire and hemp cordage. Cowls, derricks, and a medley of deck gear were taking charge, while the heavy boom boats, breaking from their securing lashings, slid noisily into the sea.

Amidst a smother of foam, and surrounded by an archipelago of floating debris, the "Tantalus" fell right over on her beam ends, resting on the bottom with only a portion of her port battery showing above the still agitated water—the grey-painted metal tinted a ruddy hue in the last rays of the setting sun.

"Give the old ship a cheer, lads!" shouted her late captain.

The men gave three resounding cheers in the true old British style, the soft west wind catching the echoes and sending them far and wide across the lofty Cornish land; while the "Antipas" and her consorts bore away for the Trecurnow Naval Base.

"We've a pretty big crowd on board," remarked Holcombe to his chum Farrar. "You hardly expected to find yourselves shipmates with a horde of Huns, did you?"

"Shipmates with a horde of Huns?" repeated Farrar. "What do you mean?"

"Simply that we have the crew of the U-boat that torpedoed you safely under hatches."

"That's good!" exclaimed the R.N.V.R. sub. "We heard that you had strafed old Fritz, but having her crew on board is news—absolutely."

"And," continued Holcombe, "we were examining the prisoners' effects. In the kapitan's pocket-book we found a receipted bill for a double dinner at one of the leading hotels at Trebalda. The old sinner must have gone ashore in mufti, taking one of the officers with him most likely, or else he met a pal. Mark my words, there'll be some lively developments. The kapitan—von Loringhoven's his name, brother to that Zeppelin commander who raided Barborough last year—looked a bit silly when we found the document, but he wouldn't say how he got hold of it. It's up to some one to find out. So our skipper is going to send the bill to Scotland Yard."

"What's von Loringhoven like?" asked Nigel.

"Too much like an Anglo-Saxon to my idea," replied Holcombe. "Speaks English without a trace of a German accent."

"And his second-in-command?"

"Unspeakable," answered the destroyer's sub with a shrug of his shoulders. "A loose-lipped, chinless Hun, with an everlasting giggle that is ever present when he has the wind up properly. He speaks English after a fashion; but he'd give himself away before he opened his mouth."

"Then one may take it for granted that von Loringhoven's companion at dinner was not his unter-leutnant," decided Farrar. "I wonder if the fellow who tried to blow up Poldene Bridge had a hand in that evening's festivities?"

"You're a rum one for fantastic theories, Slogger," protested Holcombe.

"P'r'aps;" admitted Farrar; "but strange things happen in the war, you know."

CHAPTER XIV

A CHANCE SHOT

"WHAT are you going to do with yourself, old man?" inquired Eric Greenwood, late assistant-paymaster of H.M.S. "Tantalus," after the court-martial had sat upon the survivors of the lost cruiser and, following its finding, the officers and men of the sunk vessel had been given fourteen days' leave.

"Hardly know yet," replied Farrar. "Run up to town, I expect—may get a bit of excitement there; or else look up some of my people's friends at Lymbury, although it's five years or more since we—that is, my parents—left the place. The governor's got a Staff job out in New Zealand."

"Look here," exclaimed the A.P. impetuously. "Come and sling your hammock at my people's place. My governor has just taken a house at Penkestle, close to where Tressidar's family hang out. The skipper of the 'Antipas' is my revered brother-in-law. I suppose you know that?"

Farrar shook his head.

"Well," continued Greenwood, "that's neither here nor there as far as present circumstances stand. I have an open invite for any of my pals, so how about it? Fishing, shooting, and all that sort of thing, but I'm afraid motoring's dead off."

"Thanks, I'm on," accepted Farrar promptly. Truth to tell he had not been looking forward to his leave with pleasurable anticipations. "Knocking around" without any definite plan of action was distasteful to him, but the A.P.'s invitation put a totally different aspect upon things.

"But I say," he added dubiously, "what about Bruno?"

"Bruno, of course, stands in," declared Greenwood. "My people are very keen on dogs—large ones especially. I'll wire off at once, and we'll catch the 4.45 from Trecurnow. We'll have to change at St. Penibar."

"Where is Penkestle?" asked the sub.

"About four miles from Trebalda: you know where that place is?"

"Heard of it," admitted Farrar. "Holcombe mentioned that the kapitan of U 254 was supposed to have landed there in mufti. Right-o; I'll have my gear together by lunch-time. Hear that, Bruno? We're off to a country-house. A change for you, old boy, after a crowded mess-deck."

The St. Bernard blinked solemnly, as if to imply that he didn't care a brass farthing whether he was on dry land or on the heaving deck of a ship as long as he was in his master's company.

Although only a distance of fifty miles it was seven o'clock before the two young officers arrived at Trebalda Station.

"There's the governor!" exclaimed Eric. "Come along, old man. Pater, let me introduce you to my pal Slogger, otherwise Nigel Farrar, one of the homeless waifs from the old 'Tantalus.' And Bruno, of the same reliable firm."

Mr. Greenwood greeted the sub warmly, although he eyed the huge St. Bernard with misgivings.

"Er—Bruno's almost as big as a donkey," he observed, "but we can't put him out to grass. Still, we'll do our best for him in the commissariat department."

"All ready, pater?" inquired Eric, lifting his portmanteau from the platform.

"Far from it, my boy," replied his parent. "Put that thing on a seat and have a smoke. I'm killing two birds with one stone—hence the ponderous conveyance."

And he indicated a five-seater car waiting outside the station gates.

"What's the move, then?" inquired the A.P.

"More visitors," replied Mr. Greenwood. "Fortunately the house is large. An old friend of mine—one I haven't seen for over twenty years—is arriving by the down train. Barcroft's his name—Peter Barcroft. You've heard me mention him?"

"By Jove, that's strange!" remarked Farrar. "The Blimp johnny who strafed our pal U 254 is a Barcroft. Any relation, I wonder?"

"Yes, his son," replied Mr. Greenwood. "Peter mentioned that his son Billy was in the Naval Air Service. Good, the signal's down. The train seems pretty punctual."

"Come here, Bruno," ordered the sub, noticing that the animal was rubbing his muzzle against the hand of a dark-featured man who was standing by the ticket-gate.

"I don't mind," exclaimed the man, patting the St. Bernard's head. "Used to animals, you know. Fine brute."

With a casual movement he glanced at the dog's collar—a silver-plated one inscribed "Bruno—Sub-Lieutenant N. Farrar, R.N.V.R., H.M.S. 'Tantalus.'"

"H'm!" he muttered. "Quite a coincidence. ...Here! Good dog, go to your master."

Just then the train ran into the station. Amidst the loud noise of doors opening and shutting about a dozen passengers boarded the train, while nearly three times that number alighted. Amongst them was a well-set-up, clean-shaven man in a Norfolk suit.

"Hullo, Greenwood!" he exclaimed briskly.

"Pleased to meet you again after all this long time. By Jove, I recognise you, you see. Looking jolly fit, too."

"I feel fit," admitted his friend. "Work on the land, drilling with the Gorgeous Wrecks, making myself generally useful, and all that sort of thing, don't you know. And war rations suit me, too. Feel twenty years younger than I did before the war, and, by Jove, I'm my own carpenter, bricklayer, plumber, and a dozen other trades rolled into one. If I had known as much ten years ago as I do now, I would have saved hundreds of pounds in wages. But I'm forgetting: my son, Eric; his friend, Mr. Farrar—Mr. Farrar knows your boy, I believe."

"Only by name," corrected the sub. "As a matter of fact he was in command of the Blimp that strafed the U-boat that did us in. We're late of the 'Tantalus.'"

"Oh, was he?" remarked Peter Barcroft drily. "First I've heard of it. Precious little news I get from Billy about his doings."

"True to the traditions of the Great Silent Navy," observed the A.P. "Of course we don't like advertising, but there are times when various little incidents will out."

"Look here," interrupted Mr. Greenwood, beaming affably. "If you are about to start a debate on the subject of the Royal Navy, I'll order the car to return in three hours' time. I say, Barcroft——"

But Peter Barcroft had broken away from the group. Nigel Farrar caught sight of him shaking the hand of the individual who had been fondling his dog.

"Bless my soul, Entwistle!" exclaimed Peter. "What on earth are you doing down here—shadowing me?"

"Hope I shan't have to do that again," replied Philip Entwistle, Secret Service Agent. "I'm on the track of a fellow who dined at an hotel here with the captain of a German submarine. Keep the information to yourself, although before long I may have to enlist the aid of these naval officers. That St. Bernard gave me a clue. Oh, by the by, how are your dogs, Ponto and Nan?"

"Fit as ever, short commons notwithstanding," replied Peter. "I didn't bring them down with me, to their great discontent. Well, I mustn't keep my old friend Greenwood any longer. I'll be bound to run across you in a day or so."

"Who's that fellow, Peter?" asked Mr. Greenwood as the four men and Bruno boarded the waiting car.

"An old friend of mine, a veterinary surgeon," explained Mr. Barcroft. "He lives but a few miles from me. The world is small. I hardly expected to find him here."

A quarter of an hour later the car pulled up at "The Old Croft," at Penkestle, a long, two-storied stone building like many another to be found in Cornwall.

"Show Farrar his room, Eric," said Mr. Greenwood after the guests had been introduced to Mrs. Greenwood and her two daughters: Doris, now Mrs. Ronald Tressidar, and Winifred, a lively girl of seventeen or eighteen. "I'll take Peter to his temporary quarters. Dinner is when, my dear?"

"At eight, for this night only," replied Mrs. Greenwood. "Now, girls, set to. We've each our allotted tasks now, owing to the shortage of servants," she explained. "Eric, you've come home at a very opportune moment."

"How's that, mater?" asked the A.P.

"There's no meat for to-morrow, so you can organise a rabbit-shooting party. You'll like to take a gun, Mr. Farrar?"

"Rather," replied the sub with alacrity.

"And Mr. Barcroft?" inquired the A.P.

Peter was in the act of following his host upstairs. He stopped and shook his head.

"Thanks," he replied. "I'm not taking any just at present," he observed. "Used to do a lot of shooting on the moors. Saw a man... an—er—acquaintance, or, rather, a neighbour, messed about pretty badly through his gun bursting.... He died soon after. It put me off absolutely."

"I'll come, Eric," said Winifred. "That is, if you want me. And you can lend me your small gun. Those twelve-bores kick so."

"Delighted, Freddy, I'm sure," exclaimed her brother with genuine pleasure. "Farrar, old bird, you'll have to look to your laurels. Freddy is a regular terror when she's after bunnies."

Soon after breakfast the following morning the three guns set out, accompanied by a pair of silky-haired spaniels, greatly to Bruno's resentment, for to the St. Bernard things didn't seem at all right that his master should take a couple of insignificant and strange dogs for a stroll, while he was condemned to spend the morning locked up in a shed.

"By Jove, this air is great!" remarked the sub, as they crossed a stile and gained the open moor. "Your governor couldn't have chosen more desolate surroundings, Greenwood. Not a sign of a human being or a habitation for miles ahead. Look here, Miss Greenwood, allow me to carry your gun."

The A.P. laughed as his sister shook her head resolutely.

"Freddy likes to be independent," he observed. "I say, Farrar, you've just told a terminological inexactitude; where are your eyes? There's some one coming this way."

"Yes, you're right," admitted Farrar. "And, strange enough, it's the fellow we saw on Trebalda Station platform: the one who spoke to Mr. Barcroft, you remember?"

"Good morning," exclaimed Entwistle, raising his cap as he approached. "Can you direct me to 'The Croft'?"

"You are going to see your friend, Mr. Barcroft, I presume?" asked the A.P. after giving the required direction. "You are Mr. Entwistle, I think?"

"I am," admitted the Secret Service man, wondering how much Peter had said about him. "And how is your St. Bernard, Mr. Farrar?"

It was the sub's turn to be surprised, only, unlike Entwistle, he expressed it openly.

"I saw your name on the dog's collar," explained Entwistle. "Well, don't let me detain you. I wish you good sport."

"We are bound to see you at lunch," said Eric. "The governor will insist upon your staying."

"You are very hospitable," remarked Entwistle.

"Not at all," protested the A.P. "Simply my governor's deputy, don't you know. The fact that you are a friend of Mr. Barcroft is sufficient guarantee for me to ask you."

The Secret Service man, still in the dark as to how much the young naval officer knew of his affairs, raised his cap to Winifred and hastened in the direction of "The Old Croft," while the trio resumed their way.

"Time to load," remarked Eric as they found themselves confronted by a rounded hill, the face of which was studded with gorse and heather. "We'll be bound to have some sport before we get to the top of Plas Tor. Keep fifty yards apart, and go dead in the eye of the wind: that's the move."

Before Farrar had cautiously covered a distance of a hundred yards, the while ascending the somewhat broken ground, a rabbit, surprised in the open, bolted from almost under his feet. He raised his gun, pulled both triggers—and missed. Somewhat to his mortification a shot rang out on his left and down dropped bunny like a stone.

"Simply had to do it," said Winifred, extracting the still smoking cartridge from her gun. "You let off too soon, Mr. Farrar: before the shots had time to spread."

"A clinking shot that of yours, any way," exclaimed the sub enthusiastically. "Eighty yards."

"Say sixty," corrected the girl, taking the rabbit from one of the spaniels. "Better luck next time, Mr. Farrar."

The sub reloaded, conscious at the same time of a numbing pain in his right shoulder. Letting off both barrels of a twelve-bore simultaneously, he reflected, causes the gun to recoil considerably more than the comparatively slight kick of a .303 Service rifle.

Without the chance of another shot the three "sportsmen" gained the summit of the tor, the A.P. looking considerably dejected at his failure as a prophet.

"Last time I was on leave I bagged seven on this hill," he declared in substantiation of his shattered claim. "Wonder what's up with the little beasts to-day?"

"I see by the papers that rabbits are included in meat rations," observed Winifred. "Consequently, as in other cases, there is an immediate shortage. If only the Controller would place U-boats on the list of controlled articles, they, too, would doubtless disappear."

"Hard lines on submarine hunters, then," added the A.P. "My worthy brother-in-law would be hard up for a job; and as for young Barcroft——"

"Allow me to remind you," interrupted the sub, "that discussing U-boat strafers won't find the ingredients for a rabbit pie. Which way now, old bird?"

Eric Greenwood shaded his eyes and gazed down into the valley, that literally simmered in the blazing sunshine. Everywhere wisps of mist were rising as the sun's rays beat upon the dew-sodden grass.

"We'll try in the direction of Bold Tor," he replied. "It's a good three miles, but we can have something to eat when we get to the top and still get back well in time for lunch."

For the best part of an hour the three guns proceeded at varying distances apart, but ill-luck attended them. Not another rabbit was to be seen, despite the fact that the girl and her two companions moved with deliberate stealth, with the well-trained dogs following silently at Winifred's heels.

"Slow sport," soliloquised the sub. "Well, thank goodness, we're nearly to the top of Broad Tor; then we can ease our jaw-tackle. Hanged if I like being as silent as a Trappist monk."

Suddenly, two swift, brownish objects darted from the cover of a gorse-bush. Farrar had a momentary glimpse of two white tails as the animals changed course and bolted for a place of refuge—a honey-combed bank overhung with low bushes.

Mindful of Winifred's warning, he fired at forty yards. Down dropped one rabbit, kicking frantically, while the other, partly crippled, struggled towards the nearmost hole. With his gun still at the shoulder the sub fired the second barrel.

"Hurrah!" he shouted involuntarily, as the second rabbit dropped; but as he started to run to secure his prizes, he caught a brief glance of a man's head and shoulders above the bushes, one side of his face streaming with blood, ere he dropped to the ground.

"Well done!" exclaimed the A.P., who on hearing the shots was hastening towards the sub.

"Far from it," said Farrar in a low voice. "I say, keep Miss Greenwood back out of it; I've plugged some poor bounder."

"Rot!" exclaimed the A.P. incredulously.

"Fact," protested the luckless sportsman. "Be quick, man! Take her away out of it."

Leaving Greenwood to attempt the futile task the sub forced his way through the undergrowth till he came to the spot where his victim dropped. Lying face downwards on a small plot of grass was a tall, well-built man, unconscious, but breathing stertorously. A cloth cap was hung up in the bushes, having evidently been blown there by a portion of the charge of No. 6 shot. The cap had to a certain extent protected its wearer, for beyond a few slight scratches the top of his head was untouched; but from the right temple downwards to the neck the hard-hitting pellets had done their work only too well.

While Farrar was attempting to render first-aid the A.P. and his sister arrived upon the scene, Winifred insisting on giving her assistance as a member of the V.A.D.

"It looks a worse case than it actually is," she declared in her best professional manner. "And there's no water to be had nearer than the village. The best thing we can do is to get him to the house."

"But how?" asked her brother. "It is almost impossible to get a cart of any description over this rough ground."

"We'll have to carry him," replied Winifred. "Get a couple of those young trees," and she pointed to a clump of ash saplings, the only trees to be found for miles, though fortunately close at hand.

Quickly Eric felled two of the young trees by the simple expedient of firing a charge of shot into each at close range. A knife soon cleared off the shoots, and a pair of serviceable poles, ten or twelve feet in length, were at the disposal of the amateur ambulance party.

The two men's coats—they were in mufti—were then pressed into service to complete the rough-and-ready stretcher, and with Winifred walking by the patient's side to steady any unwonted jolt to the conveyance, the sub and the A.P. carried their unconscious burden, one of the dogs being left to guard the guns until they could be sent for.

It was a back-aching task. The man was heavy, the way rough, and the heat terrific, yet gamely the two naval officers "carried on," resolutely declining to allow Miss Greenwood to bear a hand with the stretcher. Not until they were within a mile of "The Croft" did they fall in with a sturdy Cornish countryman, who willingly relieved Eric of his share. A little farther on another villager was able to perform a like service to the fairly "baked" Farrar, and by the time the party drew within sight of the house nearly a score of curious country folk tailed on. An intelligent youth volunteered to ride on his cycle into Trebalda to fetch a doctor, while the rest of the crowd of spectators hung about the gates as the stretcher was borne through the grounds to the house.

CHAPTER XV

LAID BY THE HEELS

"EXCUSE me," said Mr. Greenwood diplomatically, after having welcomed his guest's friend and given him a second invitation to lunch. "I've some work to do in the garden, but I know you two would like to have a yarn together. If, however," he added as he made for the door, "you are in need of a little gentle exercise before lunch I can introduce you to a really healthful and intellectual task—chopping wood. Failing that there are two serviceable prongs in the tool-house."

"Genial old chap," remarked Entwistle, after Mr. Greenwood had gone, "and jolly thoughtful too. As a matter of fact, I wanted to see you alone. Look here, Barcroft, to put a straight question: Did you say anything to young Farrar about my business here?"

Peter shook his head.

"I simply told him you were a vet., and a friend of mine from Barborough," he replied. "As to your business here I'm quite in the dark."

A look of relief flashed across Entwistle's features.

"That's good," he remarked. "It's rather a complex case, and Farrar may be able to render material assistance. I'm on the track of the Poldene Bridge business. I have reason to believe that the kapitan of the U-boat that torpedoed the 'Tantalus' knows something about it. You heard the details?"

"From Farrar and young Greenwood," admitted Peter. "You see, they told me the yarn in connection with that St. Bernard of Farrar's."

"Yes," added the Secret Service man. "That rather baffles me—the dog, I mean. Since I've been in Trebalda I've been on the track of the man who dined with von Loringhoven. The waiter at the hotel led me a pretty dance, and for three days I shadowed a highly respectable London banker who happened to be staying at Trebalda for a month. The waiter, it seems, got mixed up between the banker and a commercial traveller of the name of Middlecrease: that's the man I want—and he's disappeared."

"In what way is the dog concerned?" asked Barcroft.

"I'm coming to that," continued Entwistle. "You see, the fellow who attempted to blow up the bridge answers in description to this Middlecrease, putting aside the difference in clothes. But if Middlecrease were the man it is fairly safe to assume that the St. Bernard he had with him would be well known in this district. Unfortunately the animal was not known to any one until Farrar brought him up by train."

"How did you get on the fellow's track?" inquired Peter.

"From documents found at von Eitelwurmer's house," replied Entwistle. "He was not mentioned by name, but by a number; and from the importance of the numerous references made to him he was evidently one of the heads of the German Secret Service in England, which most people are now beginning to realise as an active and dangerous menace."

"Hope you'll be successful," remarked Barcroft.

"I'll do my level best," rejoined Entwistle. "However, I must wait and have a quiet yarn with Farrar when he returns. There are one or two points I want to go into."

For some moments the two men smoked in silence.

"Seen to-day's paper?" asked Peter.

The Secret Service man shook his head.

"Rarely look at one now-a-days; muzzled a jolly sight too much," he replied. "There's precious little consolation to be found in them. Russia, food-tickets, U-boat menace, tip-and-run raids in the Channel and off the East Coast, general mismanagement—enough to put a fellow off colour absolutely. Anything much this morning?"

"No—only that Sir James Timberhead has resigned."

The Secret Service man snorted indignantly.

"Resigned!" he exclaimed. "These resignations make me feel sick. First this official and then that, hopelessly incompetent nobodies pushed into soft jobs by influential friends, and then can't manage them. I'd make 'em resign—fine them a year's salary. Just think what would happen if Tommy or Jack resigned their jobs—they'd find themselves in front of a firing party in less than no time. Yet every day you'll read that So-and-so has resigned his post owing to ill-health—there's no 'medicine and duty' for them, worse luck!"

"Admitted," replied Barcroft. "But if you are in need of a wholesome tonic, might I suggest an hour or so of young Farrar's or young Greenwood's company. You'll learn something of what's doing, Entwistle. You'll have to drag it from them, but putting two and two together you'll find that the Navy is still the mainstay of the Empire."

"Pity, then, that the man-in-the-street hasn't an opportunity of finding it out," growled Barcroft's companion.

"D'ye mind if I open this window? Jolly warm for the time of year, isn't it?"

Entwistle walked to the window. Then, with his hand on the catch, he exclaimed:

"My word, Barcroft! Something's happened. There's a stretcher being carried up the drive."

Peter was by his friend's side in an instant. He, too, could see the throng of country folk around the gate as they parted to allow the improvised stretcher to pass.

"It's not Miss Greenwood," he decided, giving voice to his thoughts, and not heeding his companion's presence. "Nor Eric.... And there's Farrar. Now, who have they shot?"

"Perhaps no one," remarked Entwistle. "An accident entirely unconnected with the guns."

He threw open the French window and the two men hurried to meet the stretcher, forestalled, however, by Mr. Greenwood, who, in his agitation, had forgotten that he was shouldering a huge wood-cutter's axe and bore a resemblance to the Lord High Executioner.

"What has happened?" demanded Mr. Greenwood.

"Unfortunately I——" began the sub, but Mr. Entwistle raised a warning hand.

"Leave details for the present," he cautioned in a low voice. "Don't incriminate yourself before a crowd. Doctor's been sent for? Good! Where shall we take him, Mr. Greenwood?"

The injured man was taken to a spare bedroom, where his face was washed and his numerous wounds temporarily dressed pending the doctor's arrival.

This done Entwistle drew the sub aside.

"Where did the accident take place?" he asked.

Farrar told him, adding that the shooting party had left the guns there.

"Too tired for a walk?" inquired the Secret Service man.

"Not at all," replied the sub, rather surprised at the invitation. "I'll bring Bruno, too. And Greenwood?"

"Better leave him out of your calculations for the present," decided Entwistle. "I'll get you to offer excuses to our host. Bringing home the guns will be quite a satisfactory pretext."

It was not until the two men were a good distance from the house and well on their way across the moors that Entwistle remarked:

"I may as well be quite open with you, Farrar, knowing that I can rely upon an officer and a gentleman to be discreet. I presume that you are not aware that I am a member of the British Secret Service?"

"A 'tec?" inquired the sub, without betraying any unwonted surprise. "I'm not going to be arrested for manslaughter, I hope?"

"Far from it," replied Entwistle; "especially as the victim is in no great danger from the pellets. He is, nevertheless, in a very hazardous position, for which I have to thank you."

"Me?" exclaimed the sub incredulously.

"Certainly. The fellow you shot is a man who is greatly in request. He is none other than Thomas Middlecrease, known in Germany and elsewhere as Ernst von Gobendorff, and, I venture to suggest, the principal in the attempt to blow up Poldene Bridge."

"I saw the man on the train," remarked Farrar. "He was in military uniform. Hanged if I could see much resemblance to the man I shot—build, perhaps, but nothing else."

"The peppering of the pellets made a very efficient disguise," said Entwistle. "The anguish of the wounds tends to contract the facial muscles. I hope you will be able to identify him. Your dog, Bruno, may also be able to afford us some assistance. Hullo! here's the faithful spaniel on guard, I see."

"And there's the place where the man was when I fired," explained the sub. "See, the gorse shows the track of the pellets."

Entwistle made no remark, but forced his way through the bushes by the same track as the one made by the two officers when they carried von Gobendorff away from the scene.

"H'm!" he exclaimed softly as his hand closed upon the butt of a small but extremely powerful automatic pistol that lay partly hidden in the long grass. "Friend Gobendorff was evidently under the impression that you two fellows were tracking him, the presence of Miss Greenwood notwithstanding. He meant to make a fight for it. From the impressions upon the ground I take it that the fellow was kneeling up and looking first in your direction and then towards young Greenwood. The safety-catch of this weapon being released tends to confirm my belief that he meant to make use of the pistol. It was at the moment that he was looking at your friend that the pellets caught him, otherwise he would have received a great portion of the charge full in the face instead of the side of the face."

"Then a thundering good job I did plug the Hun!" declared the sub vehemently. He was not vindictive by nature, but the thought of being in danger of being ambushed and shot down by a skulking assassin riled him. "Better be moving, I suppose? If you'll carry one gun I'll tackle the others. Those rabbits? Yes, I'll bring them along. Poor little beasts; fancy being laid out by the same charge of shot that kippered the Boche spy. Horribly degrading for poor bunny. I say, rummy spot for a spy, isn't it? Did he have an inkling that you were on his track?"

"One cannot tell," replied Entwistle. "My theory is that he was making for a certain cottage, where, from information received, I know the fellow had previously obtained a quantity of explosives. I mean to collar those fellows this afternoon. The time's ripe."

"Single-handed?" inquired the sub.

"If necessary."

"I'd like to have a cut in with you, Entwistle," said Farrar impetuously.

"It's hardly your job," rejoined the Secret Service man dubiously. "There may be a tough sort of scrap."

"In which case two are better than one——"

"Provided each knows his job and doesn't bungle," added Entwistle. "All right, then; it's a bargain. Not a word to the others, mind. I am keeping my friend Peter quite in the dark. Do you understand an automatic?"

"Most makes," admitted the sub.

"Then have this," said his companion, handing him the weapon belonging to the Hun. "I've taken the precaution to set the safety-catch."

"How about you; aren't you armed?" asked the sub.

Entwistle smiled grimly "Trust me," he replied briefly.

At length the two men came within sight of "The Old Croft," outside the gate of which a throng of curious villagers still lingered, while in the carriage drive a motor-car was standing—an indication that the doctor from Trebalda had arrived.

Just as Entwistle and Farrar gained the door the medical man appeared. "How is the patient, doctor," inquired Entwistle.

"Progressing favourably," was the reply.

"Fit to be moved?"

"The day after to-morrow."

"Not to-day?"

The doctor regarded his questioner curiously.

"Why this hurry?"

"I'm in charge of him," declared the Secret Service man.

"I happen to know Mr. Middlecrease as a resident of Trebalda," observed the medical man drily; "and I was not aware that he was in any one's charge."

"Look here," exclaimed Entwistle, drawing the doctor aside. "You've forced my hand, so to speak. This man, Middlecrease, is under arrest as a noted German spy. Naturally I don't want the Greenwoods to know anything about it at present; and still less do I want them to have a Hun in their house, especially as he might take it into his head to vanish during the night."

"Bless my soul, you surprise me!" ejaculated the doctor. "What do you want me to do?"

"To order his removal to a nursing establishment in Trebalda," replied the Secret Service man. "I'll keep my eye on him there. Also, I know I can rely upon your silence."

"Very good," was the reply. "I'll send a motor ambulance along at—what time?"

"Say eight," rejoined Entwistle. "That will leave ample time for our little adventure, Mr. Farrar."

CHAPTER XVI

THE STRUGGLE IN THE LONELY COTTAGE

"YOU'RE a bright sort of friend, Entwistle," was Peter's greeting. "Pushing off with young Farrar and leaving me in solitary contemplation of our host's library. Well, did you get any very important information?"

Entwistle groaned in mock dismay.

"Another of them!" he exclaimed dismally. "Bless my soul, Barcroft, have I to let you into the know, too?"

"You came a cropper once when you didn't take me into your confidence——"

"Don't rub it in," protested the Secret Service man. "I'll cry peccavi. But to return to our original subject. To be brief, young Farrar knocked over my bird. The fellow he shot is von Gobendorff. I've arranged for the man to be moved to Trebalda to-night. Meanwhile—and this is where you come in handy, Peter—Farrar and I are off to complete the coup, and I want you to cover our tracks."

The promise given, Entwistle's spirits rose, when at length, at about four in the afternoon, he bade his host farewell, Barcroft casually suggested that perhaps Farrar would like to walk part of the way with him.

"I'd go myself," added Peter, "only this confounded ankle of mine—an old injury, you know. Besides, Greenwood, we've got a lot to talk about old times."

Farrar and his companion kept along the Trebalda road until they were quite half a mile from the village of Penkestle, then making a considerable detour, they found themselves on the open moor, and roughly three miles N.W. of Broad Tor.

"Here's the spot," said Entwistle, unfolding a large-scale Ordnance map, during a halt made in order to charge and light pipes. "The cottage is shown—about fifty yards from the shaft of a disused copper mine. Whether the two suspects are deliberate traitors to their country, or whether they are unwillingly the tools of the unscrupulous von Gobendorff, remains to be proved; but they are tough characters, so we must be prepared for strong action."

Keeping to the low-lying ground as far as possible, the two men stealthily approached the stone cottage, until it lay revealed at a distance of about a hundred yards. That it was not deserted was evident by a wreath of pale-grey smoke rising into the still air, while tethered to a ring in its stonework was a small, sturdily-built Cornish pony, with a pair of panniers slung across its back.

"Looks like a flit, Farrar," remarked his companion. "I'll go first. You remain here. If I whistle, one blast will mean that things are progressing favourably, and you can help me round them up. Two blasts mean that there is trouble, so don't forget to keep your pistol handy."

Entwistle deliberately knocked out the ashes from his pipe and placed it in a stout leather case.

"Don't want to have an old pal broken in the scrap," he observed, as he put the case into an inner breast-pocket. "Well, au revoir."

Concealed behind a suitably situated clump of gorse Farrar watched the retreating form of his late companion until the latter gained the blank wall of the cottage, and then edged towards the window.

For some moments Entwistle listened, crouching under the sill of the window, then he boldly tried the door. It was locked. The sound of a peremptory knock wafted to the sub's ears. A little interval and the door was thrown open, and the Secret Service man disappeared from Farrar's view.

Five long-drawn minutes passed, but neither by sight nor sound did Entwistle give indication of the progress of his efforts. The sub was becoming anxious when two shrill blasts rent the air. Entwistle was in difficulty and called for aid.

Pistol in hand, Farrar cleared the intervening stretch of rough ground and dashed through the open doorway to his companion's assistance.

In his impetuosity the sub forgot to exercise due caution. A stick was thrust betwixt his legs, and, tripping, Farrar measured his length upon the ground. Slightly dazed by his fall, the sub was hiked up in the clutches of two burly men—a prisoner—and his automatic weapon taken from him.

Vainly he attempted to break away, but an excruciating pain warned him that his captors were applying a most efficacious arm-lock. To struggle more would mean a broken limb.

"Are you sure that there are no more of these prying Englanders, Schranz?" inquired one of the men, speaking in German.

The person addressed—he was the man who had bungled with the signals on the occasion of the attempt to blow up Poldene Bridge—went out, to return presently with the information that everything appeared quiet.

"It is well," rejoined the leader of the gang. "Now to settle with these meddlesome interlopers."

"It is easier said than done," remarked another.

The sub was taking stock of his surroundings. In a corner, and protected to a certain extent by an overthrown table, stood Entwistle, seemingly unperturbed at the danger that confronted him. Instead of two suspects there were four powerfully built men to be reckoned with.

"We'll wait till it's quite dark," resumed the last speaker, "and then these Englanders will be able to test the depth of the shaft. It is better than having recourse to pistol shots; and if their bodies are ever found, well, it will be concluded that they have met with a regrettable accident."

"Why wait?" grumbled Schranz. "Everything is clear outside. Every moment is precious, if we are to get away with whole skins."

"All right," assented the leader. "Two of us will be sufficient to keep the old one in order; you others can remove the young one. Don't be long about it."

With pistols in their hands the two Huns detailed to guard Entwistle covered their prisoner, while the others, seizing Farrar, began to haul him out of the cottage, despite a strenuous resistance on the part of the sub.

So fierce was the struggle that Entwistle's guards turned their heads to watch the fracas. It was exactly what the Secret Service man was waiting for. Without removing his right hand from his hip pocket he fired two shots in rapid succession.

With a yell one of his captors leapt a couple of feet into the air and fell in a huddled mass upon the earth floor.

{Illustration: "SEIZING FARRAR, BEGAN TO HAUL HIM OUT OF THE COTTAGE." [p. 172.}

The other spun round, made a futile attempt to raise his pistol and subsided heavily across the body of his companion.

Intent upon their particular task, Schranz and the fourth man had not realised the turn of events before Entwistle, watching his opportunity, placed a bullet through the former's right arm. Without a great risk of hitting the sub, Entwistle could not fire at the remaining miscreant.

Farrar was now quite equal to the occasion. Finding, although unaccountably to him, that he was engaged against only one man he let drive with a powerful left-hander. His fist struck the Hun fairly and squarely on the chin, and the man dropped like a log.

"Rather warm while it lasted," remarked Entwistle nonchalantly. "'Fraid I've spoilt a good pair of trousers. Any damage?"

"Not to me," replied Farrar. "By Jove! I made a most unholy bungle."

"And so did I," admitted his companion. "So you've nothing to brag about. I was quite under the impression that there were only two of the fellows here, and it gave me a bit of a shock to find four. It's a handy trick, Farrar, to know how to use a pistol without removing it from your hip pocket."

"You might as well extinguish the embers," remarked Farrar.

Entwistle clapped his hand to his smouldering garment.

"Thought I could sniff something burning," he said. "There are advantages and disadvantages to most things, and a pistol fired from one's pocket is no exception. Sorry I landed you in a bit of a mess."

"Not at all," protested the sub. "You saved me from—well—a long and decidedly unpleasant fall. What's the depth of a mine shaft?"

"Anything from two hundred to four hundred feet," was the reply. "As a matter of fact I had no doubts on that score. I knew that one against four was long odds, and reckoned on a division of work when you were collared. It was then an easy matter to dispose of a couple of the bounders, and that equalised things.... No, you don't, Fritz; hands up and behave yourself!"

This was to the man Schranz, who was furtively eyeing the open door, the while nursing his bullet-punctured arm. The fellow whom Farrar had floored was still in a dazed condition, muttering incoherently. Of the others, the leader of the gang was stone dead, Entwistle's shot having penetrated the brain; the other was fast shuffling off this mortal coil.

Deftly the sub dressed the arm of his late antagonist, for the small-calibre bullet had ripped an artery.

"Now what's to be done?" he inquired.

"Go without dinner, I'm afraid," replied Entwistle. He glanced at his watch.

"In another thirty-five minutes," he announced, "we will hand over our prisoners to the local police. I took the precaution this afternoon of telephoning to the superintendent at Trebalda. The cottage will be locked up and seals attached to the doors. To-morrow I can investigate its contents at my leisure. Now, our immediate business completed, I think we'll have a pipe—try this tobacco."

CHAPTER XVII

THE BURNING MUNITION SHIP

"How about a few hours ashore?" asked Sub-Lieutenant Farrar. "There's a boat at seven bells, I hear."

"Only too delighted," replied Eric Greenwood. "It looks an interesting old show."

Five weeks had elapsed since the events recorded in the previous chapter. The two chums, appointed to the "Zenodorus," were proceeding to Malta on a transport for the purpose of joining their new ship. Owing to the intricate route taken by the "Timon," the transport conveying eight hundred troops to Salonika, fifteen days had elapsed since the two young officers sailed from Plymouth, and at the present rate of progress the "Timon" might, with luck, drop anchor in the Grand Harbour at Valletta in about another five days' time.

At present she was lying off Arezzo, a seaport on the Italian coast between Genoa and Naples, occupying a mooring close to the well-guarded entrance to the natural harbour. At another buoy a cable's length astern (the transport was lying head to wind in the tideless waters) was a large grey-hulled merchantman flying the Italian flag. Alongside one of the wharfs were two submarines displaying the red, white, and green ensign of Italy, and another with the tricolour of France. A Greek dispatch boat and half a dozen patrol craft completed the number of Allied vessels in the harbour of Arezzo.

"A whacking lump of a boat," remarked the A.P., indicating the merchantman. "Wonder why she's here? I should think there's hardly enough water for a vessel of her draught."

"She's the 'Giuseppe,' I understand," replied Farrar. "Chock-a-block with American-manufactured munitions for the Italian front. Water? She's in eleven fathoms at the very least. Hullo, ready? The steam-boat's alongside."

In the company of about a dozen naval and military officers the two chums descended the accommodation-ladder and entered the waiting boat, their departure being followed by the envious glances of hundreds of Tommies, to whom the opportunity of setting foot on Italian soil was denied.

"Not much of a show," commented Greenwood after the two officers had explored the narrow street that formed the principal thoroughfare of the town of Arezzo. "The place looks jolly picturesque at a distance, but on a closer acquaintance one's enthusiasm is apt to fall flat."

"I vote we get some grub before we go on board," suggested Farrar. "By Jove, look at those oranges! And the price! After paying fivepence each for them in England a dozen for a copper coin corresponding to our penny does seem a bit cheap."

"Not being able to export them, I suppose they have to practically give them away," remarked the A.P. "On the other hand, look at the price of coal here. I've been working it out: it's something like £13 a ton."

"There's one thing," rejoined the sub, speaking somewhat at random, "it's too jolly hot here for coal to be in great demand. Here, before we get anything to eat let's have a look at the railway station. I always had a weakness for watching trains."

A troop train was drawn up alongside the low platform. Hundreds of reservists from Campania and Calabria were being hurried northward to the Venetian plains—slim olive-feature men, short of stature, yet looking full of enthusiasm. Catching sight of two British naval officer the soldiers opened a wordy fire to the accompaniment of fantastic gestures.

"Perhaps it is as well that we don't understand Italian," laughed the A.P., as the train, the carriages of which being of the most modern trans-continental type, moved out of the station, while almost immediately behind another train that had been waiting at a siding drew up.

There was no mistaking the nationality of the occupants of the dingy, grimy carriages. At every window appeared cheerful, sun-tanned faces.

From one of the wagons-à-lit descended three or four officers, looking begrimed, unshorn, and dog-tired, but nevertheless full of buoyant spirits.

"Hullo!" facetiously exclaimed one, addressing Farrar and his companion. "This looks better. Don't say we have arrived at Calais at last?"

"A few miles farther," replied the sub.

"And an hour's stop at every hundred yards—almost," rejoined the military man. "Arezzo, eh? Five hundred miles from Taranto, an' we've only taken three days an' three nights—bless 'em! Yes, we're from the Salonika front. First leave for eighteen blank months. Every ten miles the train stops. The engine's running on wood fuel, and so we have to set all hands to work and cut down timber."

"And not a chance of a bath," chimed in another. "The brigands on the engine rush you half a lire for hot water for shaving, so I'm growing a beard. Wish I'd taken the chance to go home by boat. I'd jump at it now—U-boats and other side-shows included."

"Cheer up, Shortie!" exclaimed another. "Bear your burden like a proper foot-slogging subaltern. You're going home. All aboard, you fellows; Old Paulo is going to take us another mile on our long trek to Blighty."

The guard hurried along the platform, gesticulating violently. The tired but indomitable Tommies suffered themselves to be returned to their comfortless carriages, and with a succession of labouring grunts and jolts the leave-train steamed out of the station.

Half an hour later, as Farrar and the A.P. were making for the quay, they became aware of a babel of voices coming from the direction of the harbour. Presently wildly excited men, women, and children began to stream in the direction of the two officers, until the usually sleepy street was packed with a mob of Italians, who bore every sign of being in a state of complete panic.

"What's the commotion, I wonder?" remarked Greenwood. "Austrian aircraft, or has a U-boat barged into the harbour?"

"Something fairly exciting. Let's hurry, old bird."

Hurrying was no easy matter, owing to the press. Several times excited individuals grasped the officers' arms, and by words and signs indicated that they should avoid some unknown danger. It was not until the British officers gained the end of the Strada Marina, and came within view of the harbour, that the nature of the peril became apparent.

The munitions ship "Giuseppe" was ablaze from stem to stern. The flames had secured a firm hold upon the boat and spar decks, but, for some unexplained reason the fire had not yet eaten its way downwards, where thousands of tons of explosives were stored.

With the results of the fearful catastrophe at Halifax fresh in their minds, the inhabitants of Arezzo were flying from the town in the hope of being able to put a safe distance between them and the source of the impending explosion. The Italian senior naval officer had behaved with coolness and promptitude, hoisting a peremptory signal for all shipping to leave the port and steam seawards.

Already the "Timon," the patrol boats, and destroyer, and most of the merchantmen, had obeyed the order, while the Italian submarines were hurrying towards the open sea in order to submerge until the danger was over.

So rapidly had the flames spread that the "Giuseppe's" boats were on fire before they could be lowered. Already several of the falls had been burnt through, and the boats had fallen, still blazing, into the water. Right aft, and frequently obscured from view by the thick clouds of smoke, were about twenty of the crew of the munitions ship, either unable to swim or else too dazed to make the attempt.

Farrar glanced at his chum and pointed to the burning vessel.

"Shall us?" he inquired.

"Let's," replied the A.P. promptly.

Both men realised the nature of the impending danger, but the thought of being able to make an attempt to save life banished all sense of self-preservation. In cold blood they might have thought twice before lingering in the vicinity of a floating cargo of explosives that might be detonated at any moment. It was the British seaman's instinct to "butt in and do a bit" that supplied the stimulus to their formidable task.

Lying along the quay were dozens of boats—long "double-enders," with high prows and stern-posts after the manner of Mediterranean craft. In almost every one were oars, for in their hasty flight the boatmen had given no thought for their property, although now, doubtless, they were bemoaning the anticipated destruction of their means of livelihood.

Selecting a long carvel-built boat the two officers cast off painter and stern-fast, and seizing the oars pulled in the direction of the "Giuseppe." It was a slow business propelling a strange craft, for each of the oars worked on a single thole-pin, which was so placed as to allow the rowers to stand and face the bows and push rather than pull the long oars.

The air was heavy with pungent fumes. Clouds of black smoke eddied incessantly over and around the boat, obscuring the burning ship from the two young officers' view. The heat was terrific, while the crackle and roar of the flames dominated all other sounds.

"Way 'nough!" shouted Farrar, as the towering stern of the "Giuseppe" loomed through the smoke. "Jump for it, men."

Although unable to understand English, the survivors of the crew grasped the significance of the sub's words. Half a dozen leapt, retaining sufficient presence of mind to jump into the water and not directly into the boat. These soon clambered over the sheering gunwales, and in their terror made a frantic dash for the oars to back the little craft away from the burning ship.

"Avast there!" ordered the sub peremptorily; but it was not until he had planted a truculent Italian a blow on the chest that his command was obeyed, the men cringing and whimpering as they huddled on the bottom-boards.

Others of the "Giuseppe's" crew descended by means of ropes, until the little craft was dangerously overcrowded.

"Enough for one trip, Slogger?" inquired the A.P.

Farrar shook his head.

"No time," he decided promptly. "The others can keep overboard and hang on to the gunwales. We'll double-bank the oars and push her along."

With difficulty restraining the remaining rescued members of the "Giuseppe's" crew from clambering into the now deeply laden boat, the two British officers re-shipped the oars. Aided by several of the less panicky Italians, they rowed the sluggish craft shorewards, her progress greatly impeded by the drag of the men alongside.

The immediate work of rescue completed, the sub began to awake to the grave possibilities of the position. Considering the immense volume of fire it was little short of miraculous that the "Giuseppe" had not already been blown sky-high. Her crew might reach the shore in safety, but the chances of escaping beyond the danger-zone were very remote.

Even as Farrar watched the burning ship, the while straining desperately at the heavy oars, the enveloping pall of smoke was rent by a vivid flash. An ear-splitting detonation followed, while the hitherto calm water of the harbour was lashed with furious waves.

Panic seized upon the "Giuseppe's" crew with redoubled violence. Throwing caution to the winds they dipped the boat's gunwale. A short, crested wave breaking inboard completed the catastrophe, and the next instant the two British officers found themselves "in the ditch" in the midst of a struggling mob of Italian seamen.

Several of the latter could swim, and quickly struck out for the quay, which was now less than fifty yards away. Others grasped the keel of the upturned boat, while the rest clutched their comrades in distress with a vehemence that led to a series of frantic combats in the water.

"Fine old lash-up," soliloquised the sub as he struck out in order to avoid the embraces of a partly water-logged Genoese. "How comes it that we are still alive?"

Somehow it did not seem quite in accordance with the accepted theories that such an immense bulk of explosive had not exterminated every living thing within a couple of miles' radius.

"Hullo, Slogger!" shouted Greenwood, treading water on the outskirts of the crowd of immersed Italians. "Who's for the shore? I for one."

Just then, a boat manned by four men swept round one of the projecting heads of the jetties. Its crew consisted of the British military officers who had gone ashore from the "Timon." Scorning to take to their heels the officers had gone down to the quay to see what had become of the transport, and noticing Farrar and the A.P. putting off to rescue they had at once set to work to follow their example. It was only a lack of skilled boatmanship that prevented them acting in company with their naval confrères; as it was, they were just in time to "put the finishing touches" to the work of rescue.

Safely in the boat the sub directed his attention to the "Giuseppe." She had sunk to the bottom of the harbour, her funnels, stumpy derrick-masts, and a portion of her charred upper-works still showing above the surface.

Two cables' lengths away lay the French submarine, with a kedge anchor laid out on each side of the bows and a long grass warp from her stern to a bollard on the head of one of the jetties.

It was the ready mind of the lieutenant de vaisseau that had saved the situation. The submarine, with her propellers disabled by the result of an encounter with a U-boat off the Corsican coast, had put into Arezzo for repairs. When the "Giuseppe" took fire the submarine found herself in a helpless position, being unable to accompany the rest of the vessels to sea.

The French officer might have ordered his men to seek safety in flight, but in that case his craft was doomed to destruction. Up against a tight proposition he acted with the resource and good judgment of a worthy son of France. Ordering two anchors to be laid out well in the direction of the burning ship he kedged the submarine out of the basin until her bow tubes could be brought to bear upon the "Giuseppe." By firing a torpedo at the burning ship he ran a chance of precipitating the end should the force of the explosion be communicated to the dangerous cargo.

It was once more a case of fortune favouring the bold. The torpedo did its work effectively, without detonating the munitions on board the "Giuseppe." In less than ten minutes the inrush of water through the huge rent in the ship's side caused her to founder, and further danger was at an end.

The military officers insisted upon taking Farrar and the A.P. to an hotel to obtain the loan of some clothes while their own could be dried. The place was deserted, like almost every other building in Arezzo, but the British visitors were not to be denied. Great was the astonishment of the "padrone" when, on his return, he found the hotel in the possession of a group of English officers, two of whom were rigged out in garments that he recognised as his own.

"The 'Timon' is returning," announced a major of artillery. "Come along, boys; let's settle up and foot it."

The host, with many expressions of regret at the departure of his guests, bade them farewell.

"Ze Inglis papairs 'ave arrive," he vociferated. "All ze war-news an' big police news. Me sell copy—only one lira."

"Evidently Old Umberto imagines the latter item is an irresistible bait," remarked the A.P. as he unfolded a five days' old copy of a London evening journal. "Anything startling, I wonder?"

"Nothing much," replied Farrar, who was already glancing down the columns. "Usual tosh. One minister makes a flamboyant speech; his colleague utters a jeremiad that would make an outsider imagine that everything was lost. Some very pertinent questions asked in the House on naval matters, by Jove! Hullo, what's this? 'German Prisoners Escape:—On Monday evening four German naval officers succeeded in escaping from Stresdale Camp, and up to the time of going to press they are still at liberty. The names and descriptions of the escaped prisoners are: Otto von Loringhoven, aged 32, speaks English fluently.' What do you think of that?"

"They won't get far," declared Greenwood optimistically. "We'll read in a day or two that they've been collared."

"Let's hope so," added the sub.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE FUGITIVE

AT two o'clock on a bleak morning four men sat upon the trunk of a fallen tree in the deep recesses of Tongby Woods. Rain was descending in torrents, accompanied by a howling gale. The tree-tops bent and groaned, and, although close to the ground the numerous trunks formed a barrier to the furious wind, there was little protection from the downpour, as the saturated state of the men's clothes gave evidence to their respective wearers.

"We are now ten miles from Stresdale Camp," remarked one, speaking in German. "Now we must separate."

"No, no, Otto," protested another. "Let us keep together. Without you we are as good as lost."

Von Loringhoven shrugged his shoulders, cursing under his breath as the movement resulted in a rivulet of rain-water trickling down his neck.

"And with you I am as good as lost," he muttered sotto voce. "No, Hans; a bargain is a bargain. Have I not arranged everything for you three? You have civilian clothes, English money, food, maps, and each an address of a good German who will give you shelter and provide for your safety. It stands to reason that four men will arouse suspicion. Singly they have excellent chances."

"That is so," agreed a third. "Only it so happens that we cannot speak English so well as you, Otto. But we must trust to luck. When I broke out of Heavyshaw Camp, eleven months ago, I covered nearly two hundred kilometres before they took me. Then it was my own fault. I ought not to have made for the East Coast."

"You will be quite safe when you arrive at Manchester," declared von Loringhoven. "A large city is a splendid hiding-place. Müller makes for London, hein? Don't get blown to bits by a Gotha, Müller; that would be a cruel fate for a good German flying-officer. Koenig, you are making for Bradford: another excellent town to escape observation. And, Hans, you are for Leeds. These English know we are homing birds, and conclude that we have gone east, but for the present our course lies west."

"And you, Otto?" inquired Müller. "What are your plans?"

"I make for Liverpool," replied von Loringhoven. "A tried and trusted friend of mine lives at Bootle, which is a suburb. I will give you the address. After a fortnight you can write to me there, under the name of Smith. The address is easy to remember, so do not commit it to paper. Meanwhile I will make arrangements for the four of us to get across to Ireland. Rest easy; within a month we will be in the Fatherland once more."

"Cannot we keep together till dawn?" inquired the nervous Hans.

"No; we separate," replied von Loringhoven in a tone that brooked no denial. "Now remember, Müller: if you should be spoken to, shake your head and point to your ear. You remember the English sentence I taught you?"

"'Sorry, mate; I'm deaf,'" replied Müller with parrot-like fidelity.

"That is quite passable English," said the kapitan-leutnant approvingly. "It will be an efficient passport. Now, comrades, I will leave you."

Solemnly shaking hands with his stolid and rain-soaked compatriots, von Loringhoven set off on his solitary bid for freedom.

Before he left the shelter of the wood he stopped and drew a small packet from the inside of one of his socks. From it he produced a folded paper, which he carefully placed in the breast-pocket of his jacket, a silver badge—the emblem of an honourably discharged British soldier—and two gold stripes which he deftly sewed to the sleeve of his overcoat.

"It is as well not to take others into your confidence," he soliloquised grimly. "So now for Birmingham, Gloucester, and Bristol."

The mention of Liverpool was a "blind" on his part. Von Loringhoven's consummate trust in himself was sure to go a long way towards his attempt to get clear of the country; but he had little or no faith in his brother-officer prisoners. Unintentionally, perhaps, they would have betrayed his plans had he given them genuine information as to the direction in which he intended to go.

Following a lane, von Loringhoven at length emerged into a broad highway running in a south-westerly direction. He followed it boldly. There was little chance of meeting any one on that inclement night, while the absence of the four Huns was not likely to be discovered until the morning roll-call. He had thus five hours before the prisoners' escape was noticed—and much might be done in that time.

Several villages, all shrouded in utter darkness, he walked through without meeting a single living creature; small towns he skirted, deeming it unwise to be seen by a policeman on his nocturnal beat.

The first blush of dawn found him within sight of an isolated farm close to the side of the road. The house stood at some distance back, but a walled-in yard, with two ranges of out-buildings, suggested possibilities of a few hours' rest. The storm was on the point of clearing, although a rosy tint in the eastern sky betokened a recurrence of the rain.

Without alarming any dogs or poultry the fugitive scaled the wall. On his right was a barn, the door being secured merely by a hasp and pin. Inside, the place was almost filled with trusses of hay and piles of oil-cake. Overhead was a loft, which would furnish suitable accommodation for the fatigued man.

Von Loringhoven meant to take no undue risks. He ascended the loft, to find that there was plenty of loose hay. In the gable end overlooking the road was a door bolted on the inside. By slipping back the bolt and leaving the door ajar he could command a fairly comprehensive survey of the road, while if occasion necessitated he could drop down outside the farmhouse without running the danger of having to scale the outside wall. As an additional precaution he drew the ladder up into the loft, thus preventing any one from gaining his place of concealment until another ladder could be procured.

Hardly had von Loringhoven made these preparations when on taking a cautious survey of the road he noticed a cyclist approaching from the direction he himself had come, The man was frequently peering to right and left, while occasionally he would glance behind, as if expecting somebody.

"It is to be hoped that the camp authorities are not on our track already," soliloquised the fugitive, a wave of apprehension sweeping across his mind. It was extremely disconcerting to know that he was being pursued before he was twenty miles from Stresdale Prison Laager.

Through a minute chink between the slightly open door of the loft and the jamb von Loringhoven watched the approaching cyclist with the greatest attention. He became aware that the man's face wore a furtive look, as if he, too, was apprehensive of trouble, In spite of the inclement morning he wore no overcoat, his tweed jacket was buttoned up to his neck, his hands were unprotected by gloves. Across the handlebar of the bicycle was a folded sack secured by two pieces of string, while fastened to a carrier over the driving-wheel was a small basket.

Von Loringhoven scrutinised the man's features intently, in case the cyclist were a fellow-prisoner who had contrived to escape; but he failed to recognise him as a compatriot.

The Hun's fears returned when the cyclist dismounted almost immediately underneath the gable-end of the loft, and propped the machine against the wall.

Giving another glance up and down the road and across the fields on the other side of the highway, the man unfastened the sack from the handle-bars and, keeping close to the wall, passed out of von Loringhoven's sight.

The ober-leutnant abandoned his now useless observation post and tiptoed to a dormer window commanding a view of the farm-yard. Before he had waited thirty seconds, his newly formed surmises were confirmed by the appearance of the man's head and shoulders above the wall.

Satisfying himself that, as far as he knew, he was unobserved the man clambered astride the wall and dropped lightly upon a heap of rubbish that lay conveniently placed in a corner of the yard. Then, moving quickly and silently, he made his way to what was evidently a poultry-house, For a little while he fumbled with the lock, using a skeleton key. His efforts in that direction successful, he passed from the Hun's view.

"Ho! ho!" chuckled von Loringhoven softly. "So that is the Englishman's game? Robbing a farmer's fowl-house. It remains for a good German to turn the tables on the thief."

Retracing his way to the door the fugitive Hun threw it open. The road was quite deserted. Noiselessly, yet unhesitatingly, von Loringhoven dropped to the ground and made his way to the cycle, The next minute he was pedalling rapidly down the incline, thanking his good fortune for the gift of a speedy means of locomotion.

The bicycle was a sound one, for on dismounting von Loringhoven found that the tyres were in excellent condition and the chain almost new, while the bearings gave no indications of undue "play." Unstrapping the basket from the carrier and finding that it was empty, he hurled the somewhat distinctive appendage over a hedge.

Remounting, von Loringhoven rode hard for nearly two hours, until muscular cramp warned him that he was very much out of practice.

He was now within a mile of a large town. Already there were signs of activity in the manufacturing district. Men with food tied up in red handkerchiefs, or carried in wicket baskets, were trooping to work, but to the Hun's intense satisfaction his presence called for no suspicious comments on the part of the passers-by.

"Not much time to be lost," decided the ober-leutnant. "They are now calling the roll-call at Stresdale, and I am still within fifty miles of that hideous spot."

Taking advantage of a lull in the traffic von Loringhoven deftly loosened the valve of the back tyre, The tyre deflated, he tightened the nut again, and resumed his trudge towards the town.

"Hard luck, mate," was the greeting from a sympathetic Tommy, apparently on leave from the front. "Puncture, eh? Got far to go?"

"Only a matter of five miles," replied the mendacious Hun.

"I'll give you a hand at repairing it," offered the soldier. "I used to be in the cycle trade before I was called up."

"No, thanks," replied von Loringhoven. "The tyre's rotten. It will only puncture again before I could ride a few hundred yards. I'll get a train home."

"So you've done your bit, chum," continued the Tommy, pointing to the gold stripe on von Loringhoven's coat. "What's your regiment?"

The German had already noted the letters on the shoulder strap of his questioner. He belonged to a Lincolnshire battalion.

"The North Devons, Second Battalion," replied von Loringhoven promptly, trusting that the information would satisfy the man.

"Blimy, that so?" persisted the Tommy. "Then your crush relieved us at Armentières. D'ye happen to know—— Hullo, mate, what's up now?"

"Touch of the old trouble," replied von Loringhoven, imitating an asthmatic wheeze to perfection. "Sooner I get home the better. S'long, chum."

Arriving at the railway station the ober-leutnant found that he had twenty minutes to wait. When the booking-office opened he took a ticket for himself and one for the machine to Birmingham, the supposedly punctured wheel supplying a plausible explanation that an active man with the wind behind him should elect to go by train rather than by road. His thoroughness in purchasing an address label to affix to the machine showed that he was quite up to the requirements of the Railway Company.

He had gone into the question of the retention of the cycle, and had decided that it was quite safe to do so. The poultry thief would not dare to report his loss. On the other hand, he would be too panic-stricken to take any steps to recover it. Here again luck was with the crafty Hun, for, save in circumstances like the present, a bicycle could not be stolen without the fact being telegraphed far and wide within an hour of the discovery of the loss.

It was nearly noon when the fugitive alighted at Birmingham. In that vast city he was comparatively free from danger, especially as he had so carefully covered his tracks. Ordering a meal at a restaurant von Loringhoven ate at his ease, scanning the columns of a midday paper to ascertain whether there was any news of the escape from Stresdale. There was none; apparently the authorities had not thought fit to take the Press into their confidence.

Leaving his cycle in a lock-up, the ober-leutnant spent the afternoon in wandering about the streets until four o'clock. He had no intention of going farther that night; Birmingham as a refuge suited him admirably.

While having tea he bought an early evening edition of a paper. In it he found a small paragraph briefly reporting that four German naval officers had broken out of Stresdale Camp, but neither names nor descriptions were given.

The meal over, von Loringhoven claimed his cycle and walked to the south-western suburbs, engaging a bed at a modest hotel in Selly Oak. If questioned he had decided to tell a plausible tale that he was on his way to take up a job on a farm near Hereford, but to his satisfaction he was merely asked to perform the perfunctory task of filling in a registration form, the particulars on which were received without comment.

The fugitive spent the evening in the commercial room in the company of three "knights of the road." He was too dead beat to go out, while he could not retire to bed so early without the risk of causing undue attention.

Presently the boots brought in a late special, which one of the commercials promptly appropriated.

"I see they've collared three of those Huns who broke out of Stresdale," he remarked suddenly.

Von Loringhoven pricked up his ears, but maintained silence.

"That's good news," rejoined another commercial. "Any details?"

"Only a few," was the answer. "An interview with a special constable who arrested one of them reads rather funny. He challenged a suspicious-looking character, who replied, 'Morry, sate, I deaf am,' which gave the special sufficient justification for arresting the man."

"Just the foolish thing Müller would do," mused von Loringhoven. "And after all the pains I took to knock the simple phrase into his thick Bavarian skull. I should not wonder if he's tried his level best to give me away—unthinkingly, of course."

"And the fourth?" inquired one of the company.

"A U-boat pirate, Otto von Loringhoven by name," announced the possessor of the newspaper. "He speaks English fluently. Here's his description."

"It might apply to any of us," remarked another. "Fancy you, Wilson, being run in just as you were fixing up an order with the Parabola Company."

The eyes of the speaker roamed from one to another until they were fixed upon the uncomfortable Hun. The others followed the gaze of their brother-commercial. The ober-leutnant found the mental strain intolerable. He felt compelled to break the silence.

"And would you be astonished to learn, gentlemen," he exclaimed, "that you are in the presence of Otto von Loringhoven?"

CHAPTER XIX

BILLY'S FLYING-BOAT

"BY all the powers, Slogger! You here?"

Farrar "brought up all standing," face to face with one of the last persons he expected to encounter at Malta. He was on his way up the Strada Reale in Valetta when the cheery hail greeted him.

"Cheer-o, Holcombe!" he replied. "This is great—absolutely. What's doing?"

"Brought the 'Antipas' into the Grand Harbour yesterday morning," explained Hugh. "We left a week ago under sealed orders, and have been pelting along at twenty-five knots practically ever since, except for a short stop at Gib. Something's in the wind, Slogger, you mark my words, or they wouldn't send seven modern destroyers up the Straits."

"Pity Greenwood and I weren't given a passage in her," remarked Farrar. "It would have saved a rotten run in one of the slowest old tubs it was ever my luck to sail in—the 'Timon'; know her?"

Holcombe shook his head. "What's your packet?" he inquired.

"The 'Zenodorus.'"

"Lucky blighter!" declared Holcombe. "You have a jolly decent skipper. Aubyn's his name, isn't it?"

"Yes," agreed the R.N.V.R. sub. "From all accounts he's hot stuff. I haven't seen much of him yet. We only joined the ship late last night."

"Where's Bruno?" was Holcombe's next question.

"Left him behind at Penkestle. Greenwood's governor is taking care of him. Didn't seem to like the idea at first. Thought Bruno would be too much of a handful, but before I left he was quite pally with the dog. I should be surprised if he wants to part with him. You see, there was no accommodation on the 'Timon,' so Bruno and I had to 'split brass rags.'"

"It's little use crying over spilt milk, Slogger," continued his chum. "Had I known that you were here and that we were under orders for Malta I could easily have given Bruno a passage. But I'll tell you what I'll do: the storeship 'Gunnybag' is leaving Devonport in about a fortnight. I'll write to young Jolly, who's a pal of mine, and ask him to bring the dog out—that is, if you want him?"

"Thanks, rather," replied Farrar warmly.

"Come along to the Naval Club," suggested Holcombe, and the two chums made their way towards the rendezvous of the members of the Senior Service in Valetta.

"Do you know that chap?" asked the R.N. sub, indicating a tall, supple-framed, deeply tanned officer in the uniform of a flight-lieutenant, who was replacing a cue after the victorious termination of a "hundred up" with a tubby, round-faced engineer-lieutenant.

"Can't say I do," replied Farrar.

"Come along, then, old bird," exclaimed Holcombe, grasping his friend's arm. "I say, Barcroft, let me introduce my pal Farrar."

The two men shook hands.

"Seen you from a distance," remarked Farrar. "When you strafed the Hun that strafed us. I was on the old 'Tantalus.'"

A smile swept across Billy Barcroft's face.

"That so?" he queried. "The U-boat's rash persistence gave me a fine chance. So you are the Farrar my gov'nor mentioned in his last letters?"

"He was stopping in the same house—with Greenwood's people," explained the R.N.V.R. sub. "Yes, he looked absolutely top-hole. Grumbled a bit, though, because you didn't say anything in your letter about strafing U 254."

"I see they've let von Loringhoven slip through their fingers," commented Billy. "Wonder if he's been collared yet?"

"Not according to latest reports from home," said Holcombe. "It's a rummy world," he added, breaking off on a fresh tack. "Yesterday evening I ran full tilt into you, Barcroft, and now I've just barged into this child."

"Did you bring Blimp 144A out here?" asked Farrar.

Barcroft made a deprecatory gesture with his hands.

"I'm dead off blimping," he explained. "It's not bad sport, but, somehow, there's something lacking. S'pose it's the knowledge that you're held aloft by a gas-bag. If anything goes wrong you can't 'plane down,' you know. Your only chance is to jump mighty quick, and parachutes have a knack of letting you down in more senses than one. I saw a Hun crash.... his 'chute refused to open. It wasn't a pretty sight."

"So what are you doing now?" inquired Farrar.

"Oh, now? Just yarning," replied Billy, his ivory teeth gleaming as he smiled.

"Quite so," agreed the R.N.V.R. sub. "So please carry on. You are still in the Air Service?"

"Rather," declared Barcroft emphatically. "Yes, I felt a bit fed up with the old Blimp, so I got a pal of mine up-topsides to put in a word for me. Result: I've been given a brand-new flying-boat. Had to bring her right across France without a stop, and then on here from Marseilles. Yes, with luck things ought to hum in the Mediterranean. Fritz has been having too easy a time recently—and our patrol boats haven't been idle."

"Lucky dog!" exclaimed Holcombe. "She must be a craft to be proud of."

"Like to have a look at her?" continued Billy. "She's lying off Floriana."

He glanced at his watch.

"One o'clock," he announced. "There's a steamboat from the Customs Landing at two. You'll be able to do the honours to my little packet, and I'll put you alongside your respective ships by eight bells."

About half way to the landing-place the three officers found that their progress through the already crowded street was impeded by a mob of Maltese—the men in sombre garments that contrasted with the motley attire usually sported by the natives; the women in black, with the characteristic head-dress that somewhat resembled the Spanish mantilla. Surging up the steps of the steep strada the "Malts" were importuning every one they met, holding out metal cups for the expected reception of coins.

"What's the move, I wonder?" remarked Holcombe, as the two friends stood aside to let the throng sway past.

"Dunno," replied Barcroft. "It reminds me of Barborough Wakes."

"I can tell you," said a civilian, a dockyard official, who had overheard Holcombe's query. "Do your remember that case of Angelo Zurrico? No; you have not been long in Malta? Zurrico shot another Maltese—sort of vendetta business. He was taken red-handed and sentenced to death. His friends, unable to save his life by obtaining a reprieve, are doing the next best thing according to their lights. They are collecting money to pay for masses and a new silk rope."

"Eh?" ejaculated Billy incredulously.

"Fact," continued his informant. "Custom of Malta, you know. Every condemned criminal is provided with a silk halter if his pals can raise the wind. Also, another quaint idea, the fellow selected to do the hangman's job is at once put under arrest—partly for his own protection in case the relatives of the about-to-be executed man should take it into their heads to knife him, and also to prevent him running away. But to see the Malts at their best I'd advise you to be here for Carnival, if you are able."

The officers thanked their informant, and, the crowd having passed by, resumed their interrupted walk. At the Custom House steps a launch attached to the seaplane base was in attendance, and the run up the Grand Harbour began.

"There she is!" exclaimed Barcroft proudly, pointing to a dark-grey object lying on the surface of the water of a sheltered creek.

At first sight Farrar saw what appeared to be an exaggerated tadpole floating on the water. The flying-boat was at least eighty feet in length, with a blunt, rounded bow and a bulging body for'ard, gradually tapering to a narrow, slightly up-turned stern. Being broadside on the immense wing-spread of her triplanes was hardly noticeable until the launch drew nearer.

"Come aboard," was Billy's invitation, "only please mind your beetle-crushers. I don't want my mahogany planking scratched."

The flying-boat, on the bows of which was painted the name "Avenger," was the triumph of expert brains and painstaking workmanship. The hull was built of double-skinned mahogany with a layer of oiled silk between the outer diagonal and inner fore and aft planks, the skin being securely fastened to elm timbers and ribs. Underneath, although for the present invisible, were six hydroplane steps to facilitate the boat's ascent when "taking off" from the surface.

Wide waterways formed the deck, the sheer being broken by the raised gun platform for'ard, and, immediately in its wake, the conning tower and navigation cabin; 'midships the motor-room and petrol tanks, aft stores and provisions. Four light but powerful guns of the Cleland Davis 5-in. non-recoil type, aerial torpedo dropping gear, and a pair of searchlights comprised the attacking and defensive armament.

Lightness compatible with strength was everywhere evident, yet the tremendous bulk that had to be raised by the joint action of the planes and the four propellers, actuated by ten motors each of 200 h.p., was not far short of fifty tons. While water-borne the flying-boat was propelled by a single propeller coupled to a 160 h.p. petrol motor.

"What's her crew—how many?" inquire Farrar.

"Eighteen all told," replied Barcroft. "We work in watches. Kirkwood, my flight-sub, takes the port watch. He's gone down to Bighi this afternoon to look up an old pal, Waynsford by name, who is convalescing after a touch of Maltese fever."

"By Jove!" exclaimed Farrar enthusiastically; "she is a ripper. I like that idea of a fore-and-aft canopy. Wish I had a chance of taking on this sort of job."

"You never know your luck," answered Billy. "For the present, however, I suppose you must make the best of things on the 'Zenodorus.' If you have a chance give my regards to your skipper. He's an old chum of mine, I must look him up at the first opportunity."

"Why not this afternoon?" asked Holcombe, "You are going back with us in the launch?"

"Unfortunately, no," replied Barcroft. "I'll send you back, but I cannot get away after six bells. We're giving a display for the edification of the Commander-in-Chief and his staff. Meanwhile, let's go across to the mess; you fellows must be wanting lunch—I do."

CHAPTER XX

RAMMED

"SAIL one point on the port bow."

The hail, coming from the look out for'ard, made Farrar hasten to the weather side of the navigation-bridge and bring his night-glasses to the eyes.

The "Zenodorus" was steaming at twenty-one knots with all lights screened. Her position was roughly forty miles N.E. by E. of Cape Sta Maria di Leuca, her mission being to act as covering screen to a drifter patrol operating in the Straits of Otranto.

Five miles to the nor'ard of her course were the hardy little drifters, their crews—one-time hard-working, peaceable North Sea fishermen—forming an effective unit of the British Navy in the hazardous task of assisting in the blockade of the Austrian fleet in the Adriatic. The erstwhile fishing-boats had been on this service for many long-drawn months. They had suffered hardships and severe losses, yet day in and night out relays of these stumpily built little craft were always to be found in the Otranto Straits, sweeping for mines, looking for hostile submarines, and otherwise doing their level best to circumvent Fritz and his Allies in their stealthy acts of frightfulness.

But for one fact the drifters might be one or a hundred miles from the "Zenodorus," for, also without lights, they were totally invisible in the intense darkness. It was the constant crackle of the wireless receiver that told the alert officer of the watch of the position of the plucky little auxiliaries.

The sighting of the mysterious vessel called for immediate and prompt action. No armed merchant cruiser or light cruiser of the Royal Navy was known to be within ten miles of the "Zenodorus's" "beat"; nor, according to official information from the Italian Admiralty, were any of the Italian fleet under way in these waters. The inference, therefore, was that the strange craft was an enemy ship; possibly a raider striving to run the blockade, or else an Austrian cruiser attempting a "tip-and-run" enterprise.

On the other hand, if the vessel were a hostile craft, how came she to pass the outer drifter patrol without being challenged by the alert guardians of the Straits?

Since the two vessels were approaching from almost exactly opposite directions at an aggregate speed of approximately thirty-eight knots, there was no time to be lost. The "Zenodorus" was cleared for action. Her 6-inch quick-firers were loaded and trained abeam, ready for eventualities, but, if shots were to be exchanged, the stranger would open fire first, while as she swept by she would probably loose a couple of torpedoes at close range. It was one of the few advantages possessed by the Germans and their allies with the practical disappearance of their above-water ships: every vessel they met was either an enemy or a neutral. Should a mistake be made and a neutral vessel sent to the bottom Germany would apologise for the "regrettable incident" and offer compensation, but rarely did the owners of the luckless neutral craft receive anything beyond the empty "offer."

Sub-Lieutenant Farrar was quick to act. He knew that the senior watch-keeper was in the chart-room. Before the navigator could emerge from the brilliantly illuminated compartment and accustom his eyes to the sudden transition from light to darkness the mischief would be done—one way or the other.

"Port five!" ordered the sub.

"Port five, sir," replied the quartermaster.

"Steady!"

"Steady, sir," was the echoing response.

"'Midships!" Then to the watch on deck, "Prepare to ram!"

Even before the alert quartermaster could reply the expected happened. The sharp bows of the "Zenodorus" crashed into the starboard side of the stranger just abaft the foremast.

Those of the armed merchant cruiser's men who had not thrown themselves flat upon the deck at the order to prepare to ram were hurled violently off their feet, while above the rending of steel plates came the loud sounds of the foremast and its attendant raffle falling athwart the "Zenodorus" deck.

"By Jove!" exclaimed the sub gleefully, as a babel of voices shouting in a guttural jargon came from the rammed ship. "I was right. They are Austrians."

By hitting the enemy craft bows on Farrar had reduced the risk of the "Zenodorus" being torpedoed to a minimum. At the best a torpedo fired at close range could only strike a glancing blow, even supposing the broadside tube could be trained sufficiently ahead to bear upon the British vessel. So terrific had been the impact that the crumpled bow-plates of the "Zenodorus" were within four or six feet of the Austrian's foremast, while before both vessels lost way the former had swung round until she was at right angles to the latter's fore and aft plane.

All the time the "Zenodorus" was running her powerful engines full speed ahead. This had the effect of keeping the sharp wedge of her bows fixed in the gaping hole in her antagonist's side.

"On searchlights!" roared a voice that Farrar recognised as his captain's. Within twenty seconds of the impact Lieutenant-Commander Aubyn was on the bridge to direct operations.

A spurt of flame leapt from one of the after quick-firers on the Austrian's starboard quarter, and a shell burst under the British vessel's poop. It was a sign that the Austrian gunners were recovering from the panic into which they had been thrown by the unexpected manoeuvre of the "Zenodorus."

Lieutenant-Commander Aubyn forbore to give the order to open fire, lest the enemy ship's magazine might explode and send both vessels to a common fate, With the intention of drawing clear and taking up a position on the Austrian's port bow, he telegraphed first for "stop," then "half speed astern."

Before the "Zenodorus" could back away a score or more of the enemy clambered upon her fo'c'sle. For the moment Farrar, as well as several others of the officers and crew, was under the impression that the men were endeavouring to save themselves by gaining the deck of the ramming vessel, since it was practically a foregone conclusion that their own craft would founder rapidly when the "Zenodorus" backed clear of the huge rent in her side.

Eager to save life several of the crew went to the assistance of their foes, only to make the discovery that the "Zenodorus" was boarded by a swarm of armed and determined men, headed by a tall, powerfully-built officer, brandishing an automatic pistol in each hand.

"Repel boarders!" shouted Aubyn in stentorian tones, giving a command that only on extremely rare occasions has been heard by a British crew in action since the days of the old Wooden Walls. But a lapse of over seventy years has not changed the enthusiasm of the British tar for a hand-to-hand tumble with cold steel. Gone were the old eight-foot pikes, the keen-edged boarding axes, and the unreliable flint-lock pistols, but with their modern counterparts the bluejackets surged for'ard in a cheering, yelling, irresistible rush.

With the two powerful searchlights to aid them—for the boarders fought with the dazzling glare full in their eyes—the "Zenodorus's" men made short work of their opponents. The Austrian officer went down with a cutlass through his chest, but not before he had killed one and wounded three of his foes. A dozen of his men lay dead upon the deck, while others, attempting to flee, found their retreat had been cut off by the "Zenodorus" backing away from her prey. Seeing that their case was hopeless they laid down their arms.

Even as the British armed merchant-cruiser gathered sternway a torpedo, gleaming silvery white in the glare of the searchlight, leapt from a tube in the enemy's main deck. Disappearing beneath the waves amidst a cascade of glistening spray the missile almost grazed the British vessel's port quarter, and missing her stern post, by inches, harmlessly finished its run five miles from the scene of the encounter.

It was the hostile craft's last bolt. So great was the inrush of water that her fo'c'sle was awash. Heeling more and more she lay right over on her beam ends, the surviving members of her crew clambering up the now horizontal starboard side. Then, with a muffled roar, her boilers exploded, completely severing the hull into two parts. The for'ard portions already waterlogged, sank like a stone. The remaining part of the hull, turning completely over, remained in view for nearly five minutes, until, with very little commotion, it too disappeared from view, leaving the agitated water dotted with the heads of nearly a hundred survivors.

Already every available boat had been lowered from the "Zenodorus." The quarter boats had been smashed by the solitary shell that had exploded on her poop. Nevertheless the crew were instrumental in saving seventy of the foes, many of whom were in a state of extreme exhaustion.

"Seven feet of water in the forehold, sir," reported the carpenter, who, upon the conclusion of the action, had gone below to ascertain the amount of material damage below the water-line.

"Stokehold for'ard bulkhead holding?" inquired the captain anxiously.

"Yes, sir; tight as a bottle; but our bows are properly stove in."

Aubyn turned to the officer of the watch.

"Did you give the order to ram?" he asked.

"No, sir," replied the lieutenant. "I was in the chart-room at the time. Mr. Farrar was sub of the watch."

Rather dubious as to his reception Farrar stood at attention before his skipper and made his report—straight to the point and avoiding all unnecessary details.

"I congratulate you, Mr. Farrar," said the lieutenant-commander. "It showed promptitude and daring on your part. Your reasoning was sound—absolutely. She would have slipped a couple of tin-fish into us for a dead cert. if you had let her run past our lee. As it was we've come off lightly, but it would have been a costly mistake if that craft had been a friend."

The "Zenodorus" was still forging astern.

With her damaged bows it would be a risky business to go ahead and thus increase the hydrostatic pressure upon the transverse bulkheads. The wreckage of the foremast was cut clear and temporary wireless aerials sent aloft, a message being sent to the "Zenoclides," the "next on station," asking her to relieve the damaged vessel as soon as possible.

Examination of the prisoners revealed the information that the enemy craft was the 8,000 ton Austrian Lloyd liner "Hapsburg," that had been fitted out at Trieste for a raiding expedition to the Western Mediterranean. That the Austrian naval authorities realised that there was slight possibility of her return was evident from the instructions given to her commanding officer. The captain of the "Hapsburg" had been ordered to break through the Otranto patrol, if possible, and then, directly matters became too hot, to make for a Spanish port and be interned.

It was a daring piece of work—the evading of the drifter patrol. Favoured by intense darkness and a northerly breeze the Austrian vessel hoisted a square-sail of black canvas, and depending solely upon the wind to give her steerage way, ran noiselessly through the British outer line. Then, putting on all speed, she trusted to chance to avoid the supporting cruisers, only to be sent to the bottom by the "Zenodorus."

"It will mean six weeks in dock," observed Captain Aubyn, when the damage was revealed in the morning light. "But it might have been a jolly sight worse."

The crumpled state of the armed merchantman's bows made her injuries appear greater than they actually were. For thirty feet the plating was buckled and twisted, the deck planks shattered, and the whole of No. 2 transverse bulkhead exposed to the level of the water. The "Zenodorus" was nine feet down by the bows, but fortunately beyond the flooding of the forehold the rest of the hull was still watertight. As additional evidence of the immense force of the impact, the "Hapsburg's" steam capstan had been uprooted from its bed and had been forced completely through the British cruiser's for'ard bulkhead, where it remained as a trophy of the encounter.

With the loss of the foremast and the damage aft caused by the explosion of the hostile shell, the "Zenodorus" looked a wreck, but, as the lieutenant-commander had remarked, it might have been a jolly sight worse.

Under easy steam and escorted by a destroyer the battered merchant cruiser crawled back to Malta, where steps were immediately taken to make good defects.

At the first opportunity Sub-Lieutenant Farrar sought an interview with his commanding officer and made a suggestion.

Aubyn listened interestedly. His junior officer's scheme seemed practicable, while the sub was quite capable of being entrusted with its execution.

"Very good, Mr. Farrar," exclaimed the "owner" of the "Zenodorus." "I'll submit the matter to the Commander-in-Chief, and no doubt he will concur. I don't see why you shouldn't go on a roving commission for the next three weeks; it will be preferable to cooling your heels in Valetta. By Jove! I wish I could go with you."

CHAPTER XXI

THE LAST VOYAGE OF S.S. "ANDROMEDA"

FOR nearly half a minute silence followed von Loringhoven's dramatic assertion. Only the ticking of a clock over the oak mantelpiece broke the stillness.

Then the commercial who had been reading the newspaper coughed deprecatingly.

"We are too tough old birds to be caught with chaff, sir," he remarked. "If you want cheap notoriety try the nearest constable."

His companions laughed at the apparent discomfiture of a man who had attempted a hoax and had been detected.

"I was once in the company of a man who declared that he was Clutterbung, the fraudulent lawyer for whose arrest a thousand pounds reward was offered," observed one of the company. "On that instance the fellow was a bit wrong under the thatch. Not that I wish to insinuate anything, sir, but really your assertion is so palpably improbable that I—or rather we—decline to be imposed upon."

Von Loringhoven was breathing freely now. The crucial moment of the ordeal was passed. By making a bold statement he had "drawn" the men with whom he was in company.

"Must break the ice," he remarked pleasantly. "I've been sitting here the greater part of the evening in icy isolation. Sorry the Defence of the Realm Regulations will not permit me to stand drinks."

For the next hour conversation proceeded briskly, the ober-leutnant "pitching a yarn" of how he earned his gold stripes, giving elaborate details with such fidelity that an old soldier might have been deceived, let alone a group of commercials. In return they gave him hints about the country around Hereford, and learning that he was making his way there by road, considerately mapped out the best route from Birmingham to the Welsh border.

Refreshed and with renewed confidence von Loringhoven left Selly Oak early next morning, and riding steadily found himself at Gloucester by noon.

About five miles beyond the city he halted at a small wayside inn, where half a dozen yokels were exchanging mutual congratulations upon their being able to obtain beer. Presently the countrymen left to resume work, and von Loringhoven found himself in the sole company of a short, thick-set man dressed in a blue serge coat and trousers, a soiled peaked cap, and a muffler of doubtful colour round his neck. From the fact that the bottoms of his trousers were tucked into his grey woollen socks the ober-leutnant came to the correct conclusion that the seafarer was the possessor of a bicycle which von Loringhoven had observed leaning against the outside wall.

"Roads heavy, mate," remarked the man, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

"Fairish stiff," agreed the Hun.

The other, producing a plug of hard tobacco from his cap deliberately cut off a few thick flakes and then handed the plug to his companion.

Von Loringhoven accepted the gift. He realised that there might be possibilities in engaging in conversation with the seaman.

"S'pose I'm out o' gear," continued the latter. "Ain't been riding for over a twelvemonth. I'm deck-hand aboard the old 'Andromeda,'" he added gratuitously, pronouncing the classical name with tremendous accent upon the "me." "A swine of a tub she is; still we diddled Old Fritz on the homeward run from Mobile."

"Oh," remarked the ober-leutnant. "How was that?"

"Well, it was like this. We were off the Fastnet, bound for the Bristol Channel, when up pops a blank U-boat astern of us. Since we could only do nine knots 'twasn't much good trying to foot it, so our Old Man hoisted a bloomin' signal to some hooker what wasn't anywhere abouts, up-helmed and makes straight for Old Fritz. Fritz didn't like that 'ere signal, no more'n he liked the idea of our old packet goin' for her, so he dives. Bless me if our Old Man didn't keep cruisin' around for the best part of an hour, just to make Fritz think as 'ow he was a patrol boat. Still he might have got us. I've been torpedoed three times already."

"Then I should think you'd had enough of it," said von Loringhoven tentatively.

"Me—not much," replied the man, bridling at the mere suggestion. "It'll take more'n Old Fritz's tin-pot submarines to choke me off. My old grandfather didn't used to be frightened at Boney's privateers, an' he sailed from Bristol Town for more'n fifty years. What's bred in the bone—you know, mate. An' I ain't the only one, not by long chalks."

"Where are you bound this voyage?" asked the German.

"Dunno exactly," was the reply. "There was some talk of the 'Andromeda' making a run to Alexandra. Look 'ere, mate, you're axing me a lot o' questions. 'Ow about yourself; wot are you doin'?"

"Me—I'm only a cast-off Tommy," replied von Loringhoven.

"Then you must a' been pretty badly knocked about," commented the seaman, "or they wouldn't let you out of it."

"Still able to work, thank goodness," replied the ober-leutnant. He saw possibilities in keeping up the conversation. "How about it—shall we ride together as far as Bristol?"

For a few moments the man did not reply. He was draining his tankard, and his range of vision was limited to about nine-tenths of the interior surface of the metal mug, while his gullet was working like a piston-rod.

"Right-o, mate," he replied at length. "I'm on it; only don't forget I can't do more'n ten knots with a following wind."

During the remainder of the journey von Loringhoven made sure of his ground, and came to the conclusion that it was safe to take this newly found friend into his confidence—up to a certain point.

"What's the best way of getting out of the country?" he asked. "I'm fed up with England. For all I know they may call me up for re-examination and pack me off to the front again. Straight, I've had enough. No chance of shipping on board the 'Andromeda,' I suppose?"

"Might," replied the other. "But you ain't 'ad no experience, 'ave yer?"

"I was in a small barquentine for a couple of voyages—ten years ago," declared von Loringhoven with perfect truth. He had, like many other German naval officers, taken on a job on a Baltic timber vessel trading with various South of England ports—solely with the idea of getting acquainted with certain British harbours in view of the approach of The Day.

"No discharge papers, I suppose?" asked the seaman.

The ober-leutnant was obliged to confess that he had none.

"I can work it," continued his companion. "It'll cost you a couple o' quid, an' I can put you on to a man who'll rig you out with slops for the matter of another one-pound note. Can you rise to it?"

"I think so," replied von Loringhoven.

Three days later the s.s. "Andromeda," of 2,170 tons burthen, warped out of Avonmouth dock on her voyage to Alexandria. Her cargo consisted of military stores, her crew thirty-seven hands, including Jimmy Marsh, alias Otto von Loringhoven.

The ober-leutnant had not the faintest desire to go as far as the Mediterranean. He was firmly convinced that the tramp would be captured by an Unterseeboot before she was well clear of the Bristol Channel, in which case he would declare his identity to the kapitan-leutnant of the U-boat and be taken on board the representative substitute of the German High Seas Fleet.

Hour after hour, day after day, the eight-knotter steamed sedately on her course, but not a single U-boat was to be seen. Off Cape de Roca the "Andromeda" was ordered into harbour to ship mules for Egypt, but Portuguese territory offered von Loringhoven no inducement to desert. He might have made his way into Spain; but then the fact still remained that hostile country separated him from the Fatherland.

Off Gib. the tramp was received by British patrol boats and shepherded through the U-boat infested Straits. One hundred and fifty miles east of Algiers the condensers gave trouble, and the old tramp had to be towed into Bona for repairs that took the best part of six weeks.

Von Loringhoven stuck it gamely. He had no option. There was nothing to entice him to desert in Algerian territory, while in order to keep up his rôle he applied himself diligently to whatever task was allotted him, hoping that in the Eastern Mediterranean, where German and Austrian U-boats were showing great activity, the fate of the "Andromeda" would be sealed.

At length the tedious journey was resumed.

On the fifth day after leaving Bona the tramp sighted a felucca-rigged vessel flying Greek colours and proceeding on a course that would put her athwart the "Andromeda's" bows.

For a quarter of an hour both vessels held on in their respective directions, until, in accordance with the rule of the road, the tramp's master ordered the helm to be ported to enable the steamer to pass under the stern of the sailing craft.

Von Loringhoven, who with others of the crew was engaged in splicing a wire hawser that had been "nipped" during the "Andromeda's" stay at Bona, regarded the felucca with languid interest. He had seen feluccas many times before. At first sight this one seemed much the same as the others. The nondescript crew in motley garb looked the picture of Near Eastern indolence as they sprawled in various attitudes. Even the helmsman seemed almost too languid to exert any pressure upon the long tiller.

Presently von Loringhoven's interest quickened. Never before had he seen a Levantine craft with spotless decks nor the ropes neatly flemished. Amidships was a double-ended boat with high bow and stern posts. Over her an awning had been thrown to prevent the rays of the sun opening her seams. In these days of unrestricted piracy such a precaution was necessary, since the crew might have to take to the boat at five minutes' notice. So there was nothing extraordinary about the canvas-covered boat; but when an eddying wind lifted one corner of the awning the ober-leutnant's curiosity was fully on the alert, for plainly revealed was the rubber-shod shoulder piece of a quick-firer.

Half an hour later the felucca was out of sight. It was now von Loringhoven's watch below, and having fed on fo'c'sle fare he turned into his bunk.

Shortly after midnight the Hun, with the rest of the men off duty, was awakened by a terrific crash and a tremendous shock that flung most of the sleepers out of their berths. It needed not the bo'sun's shout of "On deck, every mother's son of you!" to clear the fore-peak.

The "Andromeda" had been torpedoed without warning, the explosion tearing a huge rent under her port quarter.

She was foundering rapidly. There was hardly time for the men to pass five of their badly wounded and injured mates into the boats before her rail was awash. Barely had the Old Man leapt into the last boat to get away when the "Andromeda" flung her stern high in the night air and slithered noisily beneath the surface.

Hardly able to realise that their floating home had disappeared from view the men lay on their oars until the master shouted to the chief mate for the boats to keep together.

"We'll be picked up as soon as it's daylight, lads," he added encouragingly. "So tighten your belts and keep a stiff upper lip."

"Submarine dead ahead," shouted several voices when, ten minutes later, a long, low-lying dark shape came into view, silhouetted against the starlit sea.

"Coming to poke Charley at us," muttered the first mate. "Don't give them any lip, lads, or as likely as not they'll throw the whole crowd of us into the ditch."

Carrying little way the U-boat slipped in between the "Andromeda's" boats. An officer and a couple of seamen were standing on the platform surrounding the conning-tower; more men were clustered round the quick-firers.

"What sheep haf we sunk?" demanded a guttural voice.

"The 'Andromeda' of Avonmouth," replied the master.

"Von swine of English sheep no more," chortled the U-boat officer. "Where your kapitan is?"

There was silence in the boats. The Old Man would have replied, but for the fact that the bo'sun had clapped his horny palm over his superior officer's mouth, and with a praiseworthy disregard for disparity of rank had bade him "keep his jaw-tackle bowsed down."

The inquiry was repeated in a decidedly menacing tone.

"Not here," answered the first mate, grasping the situation. "Most likely he's gone down."

As a matter of fact the staunch old skipper was "down," but in a different sense, for, endeavouring to assert defiantly that he was the master of s.s. "Andromeda" and not afraid of a pack of piratical Huns, he had been forcibly placed on his back in the stern sheets of the boat.

So intent upon other matters was von Loringhoven, who was in the first mate's boat, that the purport of the dialogue with the kapitan-leutnant of the U-boat failed to leave any impression on his mind.

"Take me on board!" he hailed in German. "I am Ober-Leutnant von Loringhoven, late of U 254."

"Silence there!" ordered the first mate sternly. With the rest of the survivors of the tramp he did not understand German, nor had he any suspicion that the words were in that language.

Great was his astonishment when the submarine commander ordered the boat alongside, and a couple of German seamen assisted the all too willing von Loringhoven over the bulging sides of the pirate craft. Then, her twin propellers churning the water into eddies of phosphorescence, the U-boat forged ahead and left the rest of the "Andromeda's" crew to their reflections.

"Wonder why the deuce those Huns collared Jimmy Marsh?" was the question that puzzled the boats' crews. "Suppose he knew a bit of Hun lingo and gave them lip, and they didn't like it."

Meanwhile von Loringhoven was being entertained in the cabin of the kapitan-leutnant of the U-boat, and at an early stage in the conversation he startled his brother-officer by remarking,

"If you should fall in with a felucca, Heinrich, have a care—she's dangerous."

CHAPTER XXII

FARRAR'S FIRST BAG

SUBLIEUTENANT NIGEL FARRAR had a very busy week following the return of H.M. armed merchant cruiser "Zenodorus" to Malta. With a celerity undreamt of in pre-war days his project had been submitted to the Commander-in-Chief, who returned it with the magic word "Concur."

"That's splendid, Mr. Farrar," remarked Lieutenant-Commander Aubyn. "The next thing to be done is to find a suitable craft. There are several condemned prizes lying off the Pieta Marine. Take the steam cutter and have a look at them."

The sub lost no time in carrying out his commanding officer's suggestion. Accompanied by the bo'sun and the carpenter of the "Zenodorus"—for their expert advice was highly desirable—he steered the cutter down the Grand Harbour, rounded St. Elmo on the port hand, and ran up the long, land-locked arm known as the Quarantine Harbour, thus almost circumnavigating the rocky peninsula on which the town of Valetta is built.

Almost at the head of the creek were between twenty and thirty sailing craft of all sizes up to a hundred tons, of all variety of rigs, and of half a dozen different nationalities. Some had been owned by enemy firms and had been detained when war broke out or else captured within a very few days of the declaration of hostilities; others had been seized on suspicion of having conveyed contraband or assisting U-boats in their career of piracy and murder.

It was not long before Farrar picked upon a likely vessel for his forthcoming "independent cruise." She was of about eighty tons burthen according to Board of Trade measurements, and well built and structurally sound both above and below water. She was felucca-rigged, her long lateen yards, destitute of canvas, lying along her sheering deck.

"What is her history?" inquired the sub of the warrant officer in charge of the prizes.

Reference to a docket showed that the "Afir-el-Bahr" had been captured by the boats of H.M.S. "Hammerer" during the trouble with the Senussi. The felucca, bought at a Tunisian port and flying the French flag, had been caught red-handed.

That same afternoon Farrar had the felucca towed round to the Grand Harbour, where she was hauled up on a cradle for cleaning and anti-fouling. Working all night shipwrights bored her stern-post and fitted a stern tube and propeller. This essential work having been carried out with strict secrecy, the "Afir-el-Bahr" was again launched and towed off alongside the "Zenodorus," for owing to all the dry docks being occupied, below-water repairs to the merchant cruiser had to be deferred.

In a polyglot port, although in a British Crown Colony, the danger of espionage was far more difficult to cope with than at a home station. The true Maltese is a loyal subject of King George, but on the island are hundreds, perhaps thousands of doubtful characters—men of pure or partial Arab, Greek, Moorish, Syrian, or Algerian descent—many of whom were either potential or latent spies. Consequently, all work in connection with the refitting of the felucca that might be likely to cause comment was performed during the hours of darkness.

A seventy-horse-power motor was installed in the after-hold; the deck beams were strengthened and their planks doubled in order to take the weight of two four-inch quick-firers. The for'ard gun, taken from a captured U-boat, was of the "disappearing" type, being housed, when not in use, in a water-tight compartment flush with the deck. The second quick-firer was placed amidships, being screened from observation from the sea-level by the high bulwarks, while as an additional precaution a Maltese-built boat was placed on chocks on deck, so that the weapon lay snugly against the quarter.

The existing wooden bulwarks were removed and replaced by others of light but hardened steel capable of withstanding rifle and machinegun bullets, while at intervals the metal plating was hinged so as to fall flat upon the deck and give the guns a wide arc of fire.

During the progress of this work several large wicker hampers were received on board. These, when opened, were found to be full of clothes not usually worn by men of His Majesty's Service, but nevertheless the garments were served out to a dozen of the crew, who entered into the game of make-believe with a zest that Jack Tar always displays when engaged in anything of the nature of amateur theatricals.

Ammunition, stores, and provisions were then stowed on board; new canvas, purposely soiled to appear in common with the rest of the craft, was bent to the cumbersome yards; a wireless telegraphy installation was fitted, the aerials being kept below until actually required, and finally forty of the ship's company of the "Zenodorus" took up their quarters on the "Afir-el-Bahr" under the command of Sub-Lieutenant Farrar.

Much to his disappointment Greenwood was refused permission to accompany his chum: the A.P.'s abilities were in strong demand on board the armed merchant cruiser, while as a member of the non-combatant branch there was little need for his services on particular work. As second-in-command, Mr. Gripper, the gunner of the "Zenodorus," was chosen, while to safeguard the health of the felucca's crowded crew a surgeon-probationer, Dick Leech by name, was "lent" from one of the harbour service ships.

All preparations completed, the felucca was towed out of the Grand Harbour shortly after midnight, and, exchanging signals with Forts Ricasoli and St. Elmo that vigilantly guarded the port, passed through the formidable barrier athwart the entrance.

Clear of the land the tug cast off her tow and the felucca, renamed the "Georgeos Nikolaos," hoisted sail and bore away on an easterly course.

Nigel Farrar had no cause to regret his choice of the craft. The felucca was stiff, weatherly, sailed well, and for her type pointed high. Her sharp bows and clean run aft gave her a fair turn of speed, notwithstanding her large complement and heavy cargo. The sub's experience on board his father's yacht in those far-off pre-war days was proving useful, for he had not lost the art of getting every ounce out of a vessel under sail.

The warrant officer, the felucca's second-in-command, was also a good sailing man. Although belonging to the pukka navy, Mr. Gripper had had considerable experience in sailing cutters off the East Coast of Africa, where expeditions in search of slave-running dhows afforded plenty of excitement and danger, with a chance of a few tough "scraps" thrown in. The gunner was also a stern disciplinarian. Even on board the felucca he would have things run in proper Navy fashion, while with a view of keeping the "hands" out of mischief he had the little craft's deck holystoned and the ropes either neatly coiled or flemished.

It was he who had picked two "gunlayers 1st Class" from the "Zenodorus's" ship's company, men who were able to perform feats little short of miraculous with the merchant cruiser's six-inch quick-firers. Woe betide a periscope that incautiously poked its tips above the surface anywhere within two thousand yards if either Sampson or Claydon happened to be laying the guns. Whether they would be able to maintain their reputation with the four-inch weapons of the "Georgeos Nikolaos" remained to be seen.

With the exception of half a dozen British seamen beautifully disguised as Greeks all hands on deck were strictly enjoined to keep their heads below the top of the bulwarks, while whenever a vessel was sighted every one not in "fancy rig" was ordered below. Outwardly the felucca looked like a peaceful trader, but she had a stern and retributive duty to perform—to avenge a certain hospital-ship that had been wantonly torpedoed in broad daylight.

The day passed without anything of an untoward nature occurring. At sunset the wind dropped, and the felucca lay almost motionless. She was in no hurry to make any port in particular, and there was no need to make use of the motor. After dark the wireless aerials were sent aloft, while the operator stuck to his little cabin on the offchance of picking up an "S.O.S." message from a hard-pressed merchantman. Yet no such indication was received. The felucca might have been sailing the Mediterranean in peace time as far as the presence of German Unterseebooten was concerned.

Dawn of the second day found the "Georgeos Nikolaos" 120 miles east of Malta. The flat calm still prevailed, although the vivid red sunrise presaged dirty weather. The felucca was rolling sullenly, her lateen yards groaning dismally as they ground and thumped against the raking masts.

With a scarlet scarf bound round his head in place of his white-covered uniform cap, Farrar swept the expanse of oily sea by means of his binoculars. Presently he caught sight of an indistinct shape that looked much like a truncated cone, its distance from the felucca being not far short of three miles.

"See what you make of that, Mr. Gripper," he remarked, addressing the warrant officer, who was about to take over the watch. "Dead in line with that shroud; can you pick it up?"

The gunner took the proffered binoculars, hung his cap on a belaying-pin, and levelled the glasses in the direction indicated.

"A Fritz, sir," he declared. "Busting up to see what he can pinch. Never saw a Hun hurrying to his own funeral so smart before—unless this infernal roll gives the show away."

"Lie close, men," ordered the sub, addressing those of the felucca's complement who were not playing the rôle of Greeks. "All clear there, Sampson?"

"All clear, sir," replied the gunlayer confidently, as he gave a preliminary tug to the lever operating the raising mechanism of the disappearing gun.

"Hoist the colours, Dixon," continued the sub.

A barefooted bluejacket wearing a pair of fierce-looking turned-up moustachios, glittering "gold" earrings, a loosely-fitting red shirt, and a pair of trousers of grotesque cut, pattered aft with the Greek colours in one hand and a neatly rolled up ensign in the other. Bending the blue and white flag to the signal halliards of the main lateen yard-arm he hoisted the colours of the Mercantile Marine of the Kingdom of Greece. The rolled ensign he toggled to the ensign-staff halliards, keeping the compact bundle of bunting well below the taffrail.

The U-boat came up rapidly and unhesitatingly. Evidently the anticipated prize was not thought worth a warning shot, although the pirates were manning the for'ard "disappearing" gun. The whole of her length—close on 250 feet—was exposed, nearly a score of her crew being distributed along the deck. On the conning-tower platform stood a couple of gold-laced officers and the helmsman, for when running on the surface and not about to attack this type of craft is steered by means of a wheel in front of the conning tower.

From a stumpy mast in the wake of the twin periscopes the Black Cross ensign of Germany drooped sullenly in the still air, as if ashamed to display the badge of infamy.

At a distance of about two cables' lengths, the U-boat made a complete circuit of the felucca, as if to show her powers of manoeuvring. It was like a cat playing with a mouse.

"'Georgeos Nikolaos' ahoy!" shouted the kapitan-leutnant in a vile smattering of the language of the modern Hellenes. "Where are you bound? What is your cargo?"

One of the disguised bluejackets replied. An R.N.R. man he had, prior to the outbreak of hostilities, been a steward on a passenger boat plying between Port Said, the Piraeus, and Constantinople, and was decidedly a very handy member of the felucca's crew.

"We are from Messina, bound for Damietta, with a general cargo, illustrious kapitan," he replied.

"Ach! general cargo—contraband every kilogramme. Abandon your craft. I give you five minutes."

"But," protested the pseudo Greek, "we have only one small boat, and we are many leagues from the nearest land. Bad weather threatens. Have you no mercy?"

"Since you Grecian dogs are fond of licking the feet of your accursed taskmasters who are the enemies of the German Fatherland," snapped the Hun, "you can drown or starve for aught I care. In any case, you will have plenty of time for reflection. Hasten; one minute of the five has already gone."

With every semblance of panic-stricken haste the members of the "theatrical stunt" threw themselves upon the boat amidships, swinging it outboard by means of tackle from the yards.

Jabbering in imitation of the cosmopolitan seafarers of various Mediterranean ports the disguised bluejackets leapt into the boat and began to row away from the felucca as hard as they could.

Farrar glanced aft. A seaman had crawled to the taffrail, and was handling the ensign halliards in gleeful anticipation, while another man was "standing by" the halliard of the Greek flag—or, rather, he was sitting on the deck with the uncleated ropes in his horny hands.

The U-boat was approaching slowly. To save time in the expected looting operations she evidently meant to run alongside. She was now but a cable's length away.

The sub sprang to his feet. Simultaneously the blue and white striped flag was struck, while a tug on the ensign halliards "broke out" the British White Ensign. Down fell several sections of the hinged steel bulwarks, revealing to the astounded Huns the deck of the felucca crowded with armed bluejackets and the muzzles of the two four-inch quick-firers pointing straight at the U-boat's conning tower.

"Surrender instantly!" shouted the sub in stentorian tones.

The result hardly came up to the sub's expectations. Several of the Huns on the forepart of the U-boat raised their hands high above their heads, abject terror showing itself on their blanched faces and by their trembling limbs. Two of them promptly leapt overboard, and struck out as hard as they could away from the doomed pirate craft.

The kapitan-leutnant was cast in a sterner mould. Shouting an order to the waverers he bolted into the conning tower. The hinged water-tight lid closed automatically, cutting off the retreat of the unter-leutnant and those of the crew who were still on deck.

Almost at the next moment a trail of air bubbles and a diverging wake of foam announced that the U-boat had let loose a torpedo at practically point-blank range. It was a chance shot, and fortunately the felucca had drifted just beyond the line of direction from the U-boat's fixed bow tube. Missing her stern by less than a couple of yards the powerful locomotive missile finished its run at nearly three miles from its target.

At the first indication of the firing of the torpedo, Sub-Lieutenant Farrar rapped out an order. Both four-inch guns spoke simultaneously. The shells did their work effectively and with appalling suddenness, for penetrating the base of the U-boat's conning tower they burst with disastrous results in the interior of the steel hull.

By the force of the irresistible explosion of the lyddite shells the submarine simply buckled. For a brief instant the bow and stern were lifted clear of the water, to disappear in a smother of smoke and flame. As the U-boat sank a quantity of petrol and oil was forced through the jagged hole amidships, and being lighter than water the highly inflammable fluid spread far and wide. The next instant the sea for a radius of fifty yards across the spot where the Hun craft had disappeared was a blaze of fire, the hissing flames threatening to set alight the idle sails of the felucca.

"Start up!" shouted the sub, addressing the engine-room artificer in charge of the "Georgeos Nikolaos" motor.

The order was promptly obeyed, and the felucca, gathering way, passed out of the danger zone, but not before the paint on her sides was blistered by the flames.

Declutching the propeller shafting the felucca lost way at three cables' distance from the still burning oil. Her officers and men on the look out for possible survivors, saw none; nor did the boat with its disguised crew, although she was rowed right up to the edge of the blazing patch of oil-covered water. Those of the U-boat's crew who had not gone down with the shattered hull had perished miserably in the flames.

"Hoist the recall," ordered the sub, and the boat, returning to the felucca, was hoisted on board.

For a few minutes the aerials were sent aloft, and a laconic message dispatched to the Commander-in-Chief.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE STORM

STRIKING the White Ensign and securing the guns the "Georgeos Nikolaos" awaited the expected breeze. It was not long in coming. Almost before the conflagration had burnt itself out in a succession of popping sounds, the placid surface was rippled by cat's paws that denoted something heavy behind it.

Heeling gently to the zephyr the felucca quickly gathered way and soon left the scene of her initial exploit far astern. By degrees the wind increased, until an extended milky-white wake gave evidence of her speed, while the long tiller vibrated under the pressure of the water against her rudder.

"Now she feels it, sir," remarked Mr. Gripper, as a squall struck the felucca full on the beam, and the tautened weather-shrouds twanged like harp-strings. "A thundering good job we know she's sound alow and aloft, for we're in for a tidy old dusting. There's something mighty heavy to windward," and he pointed to a bank of indigo-coloured clouds, the rugged edges of which were tinged with light grey and yellow hues.

"A couple of reefs in, don't you think?" asked the sub, raising his voice in order to make himself heard above the howling of the wind.

"Just as well, sir," agreed the gunner. "Seeing that we aren't in a hurry to get anywhere in particular we needn't run the risk of carrying away any of the gear for the sake of cracking on."

"Hands shorten sail!" bawled the sub.

Reefing was performed by the cumbersome process of lowering the heavy lateen yards on deck and rolling the foot of each sail sufficiently to allow the second row of reef points to be secured. The canvas was then rehoisted and sheeted home, but by this time the wind had dropped entirely. The tiller was charging from side to side under the severe buffeting of the waves against the useless rudder, until Mr. Gripper ordered the relieving tackle to be rove in order to prevent the helmsman's ribs being fractured by the flail-like blows of the oaken tiller. Save for the shaking of the sails and the clatter of the ropes and blocks against the mast a strange, almost uncanny silence prevailed. The air was hot and oppressive, while overhead the sky was overcast by a thick haze—the precursor of the storm cloud to which the gunner had called attention.

"Mind your helm," cautioned Farrar. "We'll get it hard in a moment. We don't want to be taken aback."

"There's no way on, sir," reported the quartermaster, who was assisting the helmsman at the recalcitrant tiller. "She won't answer to it."

Presently the ominous silence was torn by a shrill whistling sound—the forerunner of the approaching squall.

"Stand by fore and main sheets!" shouted the sub, as, with a sledge-hammer blow, the first of the storm burst upon the little craft.

In spite of her draught the "Georgeos Nikolaos" lay right over on her beam ends, the foam flying completely over her weather bulwarks, while the surging water was knee-deep in her lee scuppers. Spars groaned and creaked, ropes rattled against the masts like a round of machine-gun fire; blocks crashed against metal and timber work to the imminent danger of strops and sheaves, while on and below deck everything not securely lashed down broke adrift and added to the pandemonium.

For a few long-drawn seconds things looked black metaphorically and literally. It was a question whether the felucca would either capsize or be dismasted before she gathered way and answered to the helm; but nobly the hardly pressed craft responded to the challenge of the elements, and in a swelter of foam she threshed on her way through the tempestuous seas. So heavy were the rain squalls that at times it was impossible for the helmsman to discern the plunging bows, while the deck was hidden by the falling and rebounding hailstones.

"Hanged if I like that chunk of timber swaying aloft, sir!" bellowed the warrant officer, pointing to the ponderous main lateen yard. "She'll carry away her preventer back stays in a brace of shakes."

"We'll lower away the mainsail," decided Farrar. "She'll run comfortably then."

It was easier said than done to send down that long yard and secure it fore and aft. It took the united efforts of twenty men to master the stiff canvas that even when the yard was on deck was flogging and bellying out with the utmost fury, as if loath to submit to the indignity of being pinioned by the gaskets. At last the task was accomplished and the felucca, driving right before the gale, certainly made better weather of it.

For the best part of six hours the little craft ran. Both the sub and Mr. Gripper estimated her speed at eleven knots. At that rate she would soon be on a lee shore off the island of Crete, where harbours on the southern side are few and far between. The incessant rain and the blackness of the sky prevented any possibility of taking observations, and navigation became a matter of simple dead reckoning.

Presently the wind dropped almost to a flat calm. The crested seas, beaten down by the rain, subsided into long sullen rollers.

"Merely a lull," declared the warrant officer. "I've put in three commissions up the Straits, and I ought to know a bit about the weather by this time, or I'm a Dutchman. It'll veer and blow dead in our teeth."

"Up helm and let her lay to on the port tack," ordered the sub, glad to have the experience and resource of the warrant officer at his disposal. He thrust back the sliding hatch of the companion and glanced at an aneroid on the bulkhead. The barometer stood at 28.75", with a decided tendency to drop still lower.

"Wish to goodness we had fore and aft canvas instead of this unwieldy tackle," he thought, as the fore yard rattled in the slings and hammered against the raking mast with a succession of thuds that shook the vessel from truck to keel. "However, it's no use wanting what is not to be had. I'll have that foresail close reefed. If Gripper was right, we'll have plenty of sea room. Hullo, Stevenson, what is it now?"

This to the leading hand of the carpenter's crew, who had just come up from below.

"Three feet of water in the forehold, sir," he reported. "Maybe some of the gear's carried away and stove a plank, or else she's strained her forefoot."

Hands were immediately ordered to the pumps, with the result that the leak was soon got under control, but directly the wind piped up again the influx of water was resumed. Evidently the hammering of the sea had either started a plank or loosened some of her caulking, necessitating constant work with the powerful semi-rotary pumps with which the felucca had been supplied in lieu of the antiquated gadgets previously fitted to get rid of the bilge water.

But Petty Officer Stevenson was a man of many parts—one of those resourceful individuals whose value is not sufficiently appreciated by the Powers that Be. Calling for a couple of hands to volunteer for the hazardous work, he went below, and in the heaving, confined space of the forehold, set to work to remove a number of the barrels and chests at the immediate risk of being jammed between the heavy articles as they jolted and slid with every movement of the vessel. The sight of a steady stream of water rewarded his efforts. Betwixt wind and water one of the planks had been "started," probably by the impact of a piece of floating wreckage.

By means of a bit of tarred canvas with a backing of copper sheet Stevenson succeeded in stopping the leak, short pieces of timber being shored up between the ribs to make all secure, and at the end of two hours' hard and exhausting work the three men returned on deck, the petty officer making his satisfactory report as nonchalantly as if he had just carried out some trivial routine.

Throughout the rest of the day and the whole of the ensuing night, the "Georgeos Nikolaos" drove almost under bare poles, for sail had been reduced to a close-reefed foresail. Not a craft of any description had been sighted during the whole of that time. It was quite possible that more than once the felucca was in imminent danger of being run down by large steamers plying their way without lights through the trackless wastes; reasonable even to assume that she had sailed over U-boats that, to avoid the storm, were running submerged at a depth of a hundred to one hundred and fifty feet. More than once Farrar's thoughts flew to Billy Barcroft. He found himself picturing the "Avenger," and wondering how she was faring should the flying-boat happen to be caught out in the sudden storm. Long afterwards the sub made the discovery that Barcroft was "up" during the gale, and running serenely at a height of 8,000 feet, had passed within a few miles of the "Georgeos Nikolaos," for the "Avenger" was on her way to take up patrolling duties in the AEgean, where U-boats had been somewhat too active of late.

At daybreak the gale moderated. The inky clouds were disappearing to leeward, while the sun rising in a greyish mist betokened, in conjunction with a steadier glass, the approach of better weather. Still the sea ran high, the absence of rain causing the white-crested tips to curl and break viciously.

For the first time for thirty hours Farrar went below to enjoy a brief spell of welcome sleep. So dog-tired was he that he waited only to draw off his sea-boots, discard his oilskin, hurriedly drink a cup of cocoa and munch a couple of biscuits, than he threw himself into his bunk "all standing," and was soon lost to the world.

It seemed that he had been asleep for less than two minutes when a voice exclaimed,

"Large transport just torpedoed, sir; three miles on our starboard bow."

CHAPTER XXIV

THE SINKING TRANSPORT

HIS utter weariness deserting him on the receipt of this disconcerting intelligence, Sub-Lieutenant Farrar leapt from his bunk, pulled on his boots, and ran up the companion ladder.

Already Mr. Gripper had called the men to action stations. The for'ard disappearing gun had been raised, its presence being hidden from outside observation by the foot of the reefed foresail. Prone on the deck lay the uniformed crew, alertly awaiting orders to man the quick-firers and strafe the lurking foe.

The sun was now shining brightly, although the wind was still strong—"Force Six," according to the warrant officer's report. A wicked-looking sea, white with foam, extended as far as the eye could reach, the monotonous crests being broken in one place by the grey hull of a badly listing vessel of about 8,000 tons.

The torpedoed craft lay well over to starboard and well down by the stern. Clouds of smoke and steam were issuing from amidships. Three pairs of davits were empty, while from a fourth a boat hung vertically, crashing against the hull with the long sluggish movements of the sinking ship. The rest of the boats on the windward side were still hoisted, the captain evidently deciding that to attempt to lower in such a sea was a matter of impossibility, with certain risk of disaster. How the boats on the port side fared the felucca's people were unable to see, although bearing to leeward they stood a better chance of pulling clear of the foundering transport.

Upon the steeply sloping decks of the heeling vessel, numbers of khaki-clad figures could be discerned, drawn up in rigid lines. At frequent intervals a part of the line would break and disperse as the superbly disciplined troops were ordered to take their places in such of the boats that were still available.

"Makes you feel proud that you are British, sir," remarked the gunner. "Steady as a rock, those chaps, and not much of a chance for a boat in that turmoil. Shall we drop to lee'ard of her, sir?"

Before the sub could reply two dark grey poles showed upon the crest of a wave. A moment later the long sinister hull of the U-boat that had dealt the transport the mortal blow shook itself clear of the water.

Swept from end to end by the waves the U-boat's deck looked as if it afforded no foothold for any of her crew, but presently the conning-tower hatchway was thrown open, and half a dozen figures in black oilskins and seaboots made their way for'ard, hanging tenaciously the while to a wire lifeline.

Upon the platform surrounding the conning tower a tall figure, evidently that of the kapitan-leutnant, stood watching the approaching felucca through his binoculars. Cautiously Farrar removed his cap and crouched behind the plunging bulwarks, the while returning the compliment by keeping the U-boat under observation by means of his glasses.

The submarine's for'ard gun was raised, in spite of the fact that the gunners were frequently waist-deep in the surging waves. A flash and a shell hurtled through the air within a hundred yards of the bows of the "Georgeos Nikolaos."

It was an inhuman and peremptory order for the felucca to keep her distance, and not to attempt the rescue of any of the torpedoed transport's troops or crew.

Wishing to reduce the range and also to enable both guns to be brought to bear upon the unhallowed pirate craft, the sub ordered the helm to be starboarded, until the U-boat bore slightly ahead of the felucca's beam.

"Ready there?" shouted the young officer.

"Ay, ay, sir," replied the quietly confident gunlayers.

"By heavens, sir!" exclaimed the warrant officer. "Look at that—the murderous swine."

For the U-boat, not content with its work of torpedoing the transport, had opened fire upon one of the lifeboats that had pulled away from the lee side of the sinking ship. Having given the felucca orders to stand off, the Huns paid no more attention to the apparently harmless Greek trader until their cold-blooded equanimity was rudely disturbed.

With a deafening crash both quick-firers spoke simultaneously from the felucca's deck. Before the thin bluish haze of burnt cordite was dispersed, the shells had "got home." One, striking the U-boat's gun, swept it and its crew into nothingness; the other, bursting against the base of the conning tower, tore a huge rent in the steel deck, swept away the periscopes, and blistered the grey paint into a hideous yellow daub. When the smoke of the exploding missile had disappeared, the U-boat's kapitan-leutnant was observed gripping the shattered guard-rail with one hand, the other pressed to his side.

"We've got her!" exclaimed the delighted Mr. Gripper. "She can't dive, and these seas will fill her."

The German captain was evidently of the same opinion. Through his binoculars the sub saw that he was moving his jaw, as if shouting orders or questions to those of his crew in the interior of the pirate craft. Then a seaman's head and shoulders appeared through the hatchway, and a white flag fluttered in the strong wind.

"Napoo, laddie!" ejaculated the gunner. "You've all gone and done it this time."

He looked to Farrar for confirmation. The sub shook his head.

"Cease fire!" he ordered.

For the first time Mr. Gripper's mahogany-hued face expressed dissatisfaction at his youthful skipper's decision.

"I'd have blown the beasts to Hades!" he muttered.

"Down foresail!" ordered the sub. "Start her up."

Promptly the lateen yard was lowered on deck and the powerful motor began to throb and emit noisy explosions from her exhaust. Had the felucca to attempt to make dead to windward it was doubtful whether the engine would be of sufficient horse power to enable her to battle successfully against the force of wind and waves; but by running before the elements the "Georgeos Nikolaos" was adroitly manoeuvred close under the bow of the transport.

To leeward of the huge vessel there was comparatively still water. Unhesitatingly the felucca's helmsman placed her alongside the still crowded ship.

"Steady, lads!" shouted a strong voice without a tremor in the ringing tones. "Number Four platoon—dismiss."

Amidst the cheers of their comrades the sixty-odd men of the platoon scrambled, leapt, or swung themselves to the felucca's decks—bootless, coatless, and wearing lifebelts. The rescued troops were quickly sent below and the hatches battened down.

"Room for another thirty!" shouted the sub.

The required number fell out, the thirty-first patting the last of the party on the back and wishing him good luck. Then, deeply laden, the "Georgeos Nikolaos" backed away from the transport to the accompaniment of three ringing cheers from the two hundred-odd officers and men who, emulating the example of the "Birkenhead," remained drawn up upon the boat-deck.

"We'll try to keep in touch with the boats," declared Farrar, indicating the five deeply laden lifeboats that were drifting rapidly to lee'ard. "No sign of the U-boat?"

"Saw her founder just as we were rounding-to, sir," replied Sampson. "I guess there aren't any survivors from her," he added with grim satisfaction.

Presently the sub glanced aft. As he did so he gave a low whistle of surprise.

"By Jove, Mr. Gripper!" he exclaimed. "Look at the ensign."

He pointed to the Greek flag. In the excitement of the strafing operations it had not been struck and replaced by the White Ensign.

The warrant officer shrugged his shoulders.

"A mere detail, sir," he remarked.

"Fritz isn't in a position to protest," continued the sub, with ominous truth. "Main point is we've done the job neatly this time."

No further remark was made on the matter. Farrar was thinking now of other things—of the doomed transport with the band of heroes on her decks. Unable to do more to save life, for the lives of those already rescued would thereby be endangered, the officers and crew of the felucca were unwilling spectators of the last throes of the torpedoed vessel.

With the propeller running under the action of the partly throttled motor, the "Georgeos Nikolaos" was just able to keep pace with the far-flung line of boats. The latter, unable to run before the vicious seas and equally helpless to make headway, were riding to hastily constructed sea-anchors, which had the effect of keeping the boats' heads on to the waves.

On the transport men were hard at work knocking together rapidly made rafts—a frail chance, for even if the planks escaped being entangled in the rigging of the sinking ship, there was the terrific sea to contend with.

"She'll be gone in another quarter of an hour," declared Mr. Gripper.

The warrant officer stood on the weather bulwarks and, with one hand holding firmly the tautened shrouds, levelled his glass at a point on the horizon.

"What is it, Mr. Gripper?" asked the sub.

The gunner did not immediately reply. Frequently enveloped in spray he hung on rigidly, gazing the while with a doubtful expression on his weather-beaten face.

Then he leapt down.

"It's all right, sir," he announced. "There's a destroyer making for her. She'll have to be quick about it, though," he added under his breath.

CHAPTER XXV

HOLCOMBE'S SURPRISE

"S.O.S. MESSAGE through, sir," reported the yeoman of signals of H.M.S. "Antipas," saluting, as he handed Lieutenant-Commander Aubyn a signal pad.

The skipper took the proffered message, scrawled in indelible ink upon a flimsy sheet of damp paper, for the destroyer was making heavy weather of it.

Without a word Aubyn passed the message on to Holcombe, who was with his chief on the destroyer's bridge. The sub read the momentous appeal:

"Transport 'Epicyclic' torpedoed, sinking. Lat. 34° 20' 30" N., Long. 25° 15' 10" E."

"Reply, 'Am proceeding to your assistance,'" ordered the lieutenant-commander, addressing the waiting signalman. "South 50 East, quartermaster," he added, as he passed the steam steering-wheel on his way to the chart-room.

Aubyn could have delegated the setting out of the new course to his sub-lieutenant, but conscientious in all matters he himself took parallel rulers and dividers and laid off the compass course that would bring the "Antipas" to the position indicated by the sinking "Epicyclic."

"Not so dusty, eh?" he remarked to Holcombe, when the result was obtained. The preliminary direction he had given to the quartermaster was only half a degree out. "Seventy-two miles: two and a half hours' run. Let's hope we'll be in time."

A shadow fell athwart the chart. Both officers turned to find the barefooted signalman standing at the open door.

"Can't get no reply from 'er, sir," he reported.

"H'm! Dynamos out of action, I suppose," observed Aubyn. "Looks bad. All right; carry on."

The "Antipas" was cleared for action. Stanchion rails were stowed; only life-lines, led fore and aft, serving to prevent men from being washed overboard. Everything on deck was battened down, for in spite of her high fo'c'sle and exaggerated "flare" in her bows the destroyer was shipping green seas right over her bridge, the water almost instantly changing into clouds of vapour as it drifted aft against the red-hot funnels. The destroyer had just entered the limits of the path of the storm experienced by the "Georgeos Nikolaos," and on her new course she was making for the centre of the severe atmospheric disturbances. In really dirty weather a craft of this type is one of the most undesirable that can be imagined, for possessing great length to a comparatively small beam she drives through rather than over the waves, while to the vibrations imparted by the pulsations of the powerful engines must be added the disconcerting hogging and sagging of the lightly built hull.

On her errand of succour the "Antipas" was running great risks, apart from the danger of carrying on at full speed through the gale. In the rain storms there were chances of colliding with other vessels summoned by the general wireless S.O.S., while the U-boat that had dealt the transport the fatal blow might be lying in wait, possibly with others, to repeat her exploit by torpedoing some of the rescuing ships. Yet, in spite of the triple risk, Aubyn, like every one of his brother officers of the Senior Service, had not the slightest hesitation in proceeding to the scene of the disaster.

There were soon indications that others of His Majesty's ships had picked up the "Epicyclic's" S.O.S. Wireless messages in code were picked up, which, by reference to the secret code book, were found to have been sent from the destroyers "Antigone" and "Amaxila," although both were several miles farther from the scene than was the "Antipas."

At about one bell in the forenoon watch the look out reported a tramp bearing two miles on the destroyer's port bow. Ordered to "make her number" the vessel proved to be the s.s. "Andromeda" of Avonmouth, bound for Damietta.

"Very good," commented Holcombe, who was officer of the watch at the time. "Signal to her that a hostile submarine has been reported in latitude and longitude so and so "—giving the position indicated in the "Epicyclic's" message for aid. "We don't want to spend the whole day in picking up torpedoed crews."

A quarter of an hour later the "Andromeda" was out of sight, and the "Antipas," swept again and again by the terrific seas, held swiftly on her course.

"We'll have a deuce of a job, Mr. Holcombe," remarked Aubyn, as he rejoined his junior officer on the bridge. "Unless the weather moderates it will be a touch-and-go business to run alongside—that is, if the transport's still afloat."

"She may be able to pump oil overboard," suggested Holcombe. "According to——"

"Periscope on the port bow!" shouted a voice that, although stentorian in volume, was only just audible above the howling of the wind and the hiss of the flying spray.

The gunlayer of the for'ard quick-firer was quick on the mark, but a peremptory order caused him to relax his hold on the trigger of the firing-pistol. Only just in time did Aubyn detect the real nature of the supposed periscope: a portion of a foretop mast that, weighted down, was floating in a vertical position.

It was one of those common instances that would bring a volley of chaff upon the head of the mistaken look-out man, but it is also an indication of the effect of the mental and physical strain that arises from constant expectation of sighting the outward and visible sign of the modern pirate.

"No deception this time, sir," observed Holcombe, as a burst of brilliant sunshine lit up the sinking transport, which had hitherto been hidden in the scud.

"We're in time, I fancy," said the lieutenant-commander, "Fritz and other trivialities permitting."

With the guns' crews keeping a sharp look out for U-boats the "Antipas" circled completely round the "Epicyclic," pumping out gallons of crude oil as she passed to windward. Then, seizing her opportunity, the destroyer ran alongside the sinking ship on the leeward side—Aubyn had had to do this manoeuvre several times before, and was getting expert—and was made fast while the remaining Tommies and the officers and crew gained safety on the destroyer's deck.

It was an anxious ten minutes, for in spite of flexible "springs" and huge "pudding fenders" the lightly built "Antipas" was grinding heavily against the heeling sides of the transport, the port bilge keel of which was momentarily above the oil-quelled waves; but with no other casualty amongst the destroyer's crew beyond a petty officer having received a nasty "nip," the "Antipas" drew clear.

Before she had put two cables' lengths between her and the transport the latter's bows rose higher in the air, at an angle of sixty degrees. To the accompaniment of a super-cloud of smoke and steam the torpedoed vessel glided, rather than plunged, beneath the surface of the iridescent water.

The bark of the after four-inch quick-firer instantly diverted Sub-Lieutenant Holcombe's attention from the impressive spectacle of the sinking ship and the comparatively insignificant sight, though none the less to be ignored, of a torpedo cleaving through the waves. The missile had apparently been badly adjusted, for it shot clear of the water as it passed the trough of the heavy seas. Nevertheless it was heading straight for the bows of the rapidly moving destroyer; and had the mutual speed and direction been maintained, the weapon would have struck the "Antipas" amidships.

The gunlayer had been exceptionally smart on his sights. Even as the lively helmed destroyer swung round, listing heavily as she did so, a shell struck the water directly in front of the locomotive weapon. A tremendous waterspout and a deafening crash announced that a Schwartzkopff torpedo had ended its career in a manner not anticipated by its Hunnish makers or the Black Cross pirates on board the lurking U-boat.

For the next twenty minutes that U-boat had a most unpleasant time, for in spite of the heavy seas the alert destroyer "cut rings" round the spot where the periscopes were seen in the act of disappearing. Depth charges were brought into action, but whether the powerful explosions strained the submarine's hull and caused her to sink for good and all, or whether she succeeded in evading the terrible menace, neither Aubyn nor his officers and crew were able to determine. In any case, Fritz had received such a severe mental shock that the U-boat made no further attempt to torpedo the destroyer and the heavy load of rescued men.

"What's that craft doing, sir, I wonder?" asked Holcombe, calling his skipper's attention to a two-sticked sailing vessel lying head to wind at about four miles to leeward.

"Dunno; but we'll soon find out," was the laconic rejoinder, for Aubyn was perfectly aware that U-boats have been known to receive information from supposedly harmless neutrals.

The "Antipas" turned, steadied on her helm, and bore down upon the suspicious craft. On decreasing the distance the officers discovered by means of their binoculars that she was a felucca flying the Greek mercantile flag, while strung out to leeward of her were four of the transport's boats.

"She's been on the rescuing stunt, sir," observed Holcombe.

"P'r'aps," added Aubyn. "And when there's nothing about she'll start sinking them. Greek, yes—perhaps. More than likely a Levantine in German or Turkish pay."

Asked by International Code to make her number, the felucca ran up a hoist of four flags. Reference to the signal book did not elucidate matters, for the letters comprising the vessel's "number" did not appear upon the latest edition of the code book.

"Her deck is simply crowded," reported Holcombe.

"Rescued Tommies," explained the lieutenant commander.

"And men in naval rig, as well as a sprinkling of picturesque-looking villains, sir," continued the sub. "Unless I'm much mistaken she's carrying a couple of guns."

Visions of the prospect of capturing an armed raider, albeit a small one, flashed across Aubyn's mind. At this pleasurable anticipation he displayed his white teeth in a broad smile.

"Signal her to heave to until the weather moderates," he ordered. "The 'Antigone' and 'Amaxila' can't be so very far off. When they put in an appearance we can board the felucca while they buzz round for Fritzes."

"Those fellows in the boats are having a rough time," remarked Holcombe. "They're riding to sea-anchors, but there's plenty of water breaking inboard."

"Yes," agreed the skipper of the "Antipas," who knew by experience what life on board an open boat in a heavy sea meant. "But for the present we can do nothing. A boat load of landlubbers trying to board us with this tumble on would stand as much chance as a cripple trying to climb Nelson's Monument."

Maintaining an erratic zigzag course the "Antipas" steamed round and round the felucca and the boats, until with the arrival of her sister ships and the subsidence of the gale she was able to make a closer acquaintance with the suspicious-looking Greek.

At three bells in the first dog watch a large vessel was sighted bearing down in the direction of the destroyers. The "Antigone" steamed off to offer protection against U-boat attack, while the new arrival, which proved to be the empty transport "Hopalong," manoeuvred to windward of the boats in order to receive the survivors of the ill-fated "Epicyclic."

With the rapidly subsiding sea this was done without delay or loss. The "Antipas" then discharged her complement of supernumeraries, while the felucca was ordered by signal to run under the "Hopalong's" lee.

"You might board her, Mr. Holcombe," suggested Lieutenant-Commander Aubyn. "See that her papers are all in order, and find out what those guns mean."

"I may have been mistaken, sir," said the sub, giving the felucca another glance through his glasses; "but I'm hanged if I can see any signs of guns now."

"All the more reason for a strict search," rejoined the skipper grimly. "Once when I was on examination service in the North Sea I came across a short-calibred quick-firer stored in the case of a grand piano. Quite a bit of luck on my part, though," he added modestly. "The thing was in the main saloon of a supposedly Norwegian passenger and cargo boat. There was a bit of a lop on—almost as bad as it was this morning—and one of my men, an R.N.V.R. who hadn't quite found his sea legs, was shot clean on top of the blessed piano, rifle and all. I apologised to the master for the damage done, but the old chap seemed mighty particular to let the matter drop—too mighty particular I thought. So I had the top lifted—deuce of a job, for the old rascal of a skipper swore he'd lost the key. Nothing much doing at first sight—only wires and hammers and all that sort of fakelorum appertaining to pianos; but sure enough, my testing rod rasped against metal that was a jolly sight too solid even for an iron-framed 'Grand.' Yes, it was all U P with the ship. No more a Norwegian than I was, but a commerce raider two days out of Swinemunde. So you see, Mr. Holcombe, it's up to us to 'frustrate their knavish tricks.' It's our job; but as to 'confounding their politics,' well——"

The lieutenant-commander shrugged his broad shoulders. Like many another naval and military officer he had about as much admiration for the British diplomatic service as the office cat.

As soon as the felucca ran alongside the "Hopalong" Holcombe took the destroyer's whaler and an armed crew and boarded the object of his suspicions.

The felucca's deck was now almost deserted. The last of the rescued Tommies had been taken on board the transport. There were no men in naval uniform; only a handful of moustachioed Greeks.

"Where's your capitano?" demanded Holcombe, trusting that some of the crew spoke English.

The only reply he received was a prodigious grin and a most exasperating wink.

"Dash you, you fat-headed rascal!" exclaimed the incensed sub; "do you or do you not understand? Are you the captain? Where are your papers?"

Again a stolid movement of the fellow's left eye was the sole response.

"Cast off there!" ordered Holcombe. "Hanged if I won't have you taken in tow and introduce you to the Prize Court at Valetta."

Some of the whaler's crew cast off the hawser by which the "Georgeos Nikolaos" was made fast alongside the "Hopalong." The transport, with a destroyer in attendance, shaped a course to the nor'west, while the felucca was left rolling in the long swell.

Meanwhile Holcombe, ordering the Greek master to stand back—which he did with considerable alacrity to avoid the butt-end of one of the bluejackets' rifle descending upon his toes—proceeded to make a thorough overhaul of the presumed prize.

"Thought so!" he exclaimed triumphantly, as one of the seamen threw back the awning over the boat amidships, revealing a quick-firer. "A German gun, by the powers! Good enough, Knight. Clap those dirty-looking rascals under hatches. Flannigan," he continued, addressing a signalman, "semaphore the 'Antipas' and report that we have discovered the prize to be armed with a German-made quick-firer."

"Two, sir," corrected the signalman. "There's one on disappearing mountings up for'ard."

"Better still," chortled the hugely delighted sub. "Now, you blighters, you're under escort—can do? Savvy? Comprenez? Verstehen Sie das? Oh, chuck it with that infernal wink of yours!"

The Greek amiably complied with Holcombe's rather ungracious request, but promptly raised one eyebrow, which exasperated the sub still more. But just at that moment the fellow's facial contortions proved too much for the adhesibility of his moustache, which fell to the deck, revealing the features of Sub-Lieutenant Nigel Farrar.

"Slogger, you—you—you——!" exclaimed the astounded Holcombe. "What on earth are you doing in this rotten rig-out?"

"Allow me to correct you on a few points, old bird," said Farrar. "In the first place, 'on earth' is hardly appropriate; secondly, my get-up could not be so very rotten, for it got the weather side of you."

"Well, carry on," rejoined Holcombe tentatively.

"There's little to tell," replied his chum. "We are on a strafing stunt. Bagged two Fritzes already. Wonder the skipper of the 'Epicyclic' hadn't given the show away."

This certainly was a puzzler. Later inquiries showed, however, that the officers and crew of the torpedoed transport were so occupied with the task of getting the boat away and anxious concerning the presence of the U-boat that they had failed to notice the approach of the little felucca. Nor did they attribute the strafing of the submarine to her agency, putting down the explosion to internal causes.

"Your independent cruise was kept very much in the dark as far as we were concerned," said Holcombe. "We hadn't the faintest inkling of it when we left Malta."

"Let's hope the secret won't out a while—at least, as far as Fritz is concerned," rejoined Farrar. "We're just beginning to like the job."

CHAPTER XXVI

A FIGHT TO A FINISH

IT was two days later that the "Georgeos Nikolaos" ran under the stern of the "Andromeda," and the astute von Loringhoven had detected the raison d'être of what appeared to be at first sight a nondescript Mediterranean trading felucca. In happy ignorance of what had occurred the "Georgeos Nikolaos" carried on with a fair amount of success, never turning the tables on a U-boat until she was practically certain of making a proper job of the business.

On the thirteenth day after leaving Malta the felucca turned her bows westward. Provisions were showing signs of running short, while the crowded state of the little craft made it undesirable to keep the seas for any great length of time.

With a following wind the "Georgeos Nikolaos," carrying all sail, footed it merrily. Provided the breeze held, another five days ought to see her safely in the Grand Harbour.

"We haven't done so badly, sir," remarked Mr. Gripper, pointing to the heads of five brightly polished brass nails which were driven into the tiller, each nail representing a "bag." "Although I says it as shouldn't, it's something to be proud of. We may get another Fritz to-day. It's our thirteenth day out, and thirteen is my lucky number."

"Is that so?" asked the sub, not with any particular display of enthusiasm. It was the mere idea of being able to talk that prompted him, for beyond a few necessary orders Farrar hardly exchanged a word when the warrant officer was not on deck, for the medico, being of a very retiring nature, spent most of his leisure hours below, "swotting" at scientific books.

"Fact," declared the gunner vehemently, as if wishing to push home an unacceptable truth. "I entered Greenwich School on the thirteenth, an' got my warrant rank thirteen years later. It was November 13th, two years ago, when we torpedoed the German light cruiser 'Pelikan,' and my share of the prize money, awarded thirteen months later, was £130, which is ten times thirteen. So I'm in hopes of pulling off something to-day."

"Let's hope so," added Farrar.

"Hope so, sir? It's more than a question of hope. There, didn't I say so?" he added as a seaman raised the shout of "Submarine on the starboard bow, sir."

There was no doubt about it. Quite four miles away, but showing up clearly in the slanting rays of the rising sun, was a large submarine running on the surface, although the curvature of the sea permitted only the conning tower to be visible.

"She's heading this way—straight for us," said the gunner gleefully. "Wonder if it's her thirteenth day?"

"Up helm, quartermaster," ordered the sub. "We'll have to lure her a bit."

The felucca was turned until she lay on a northerly course. Almost immediately afterwards the U-boat altered helm, until she was running in the same direction as her prey, but without making any effort to decrease the distance.

"Hanged if I like that at all," soliloquised Nigel. "Looks as if she smells a rat. 'Bout ship," he shouted. "Down helm."

The "Georgeos Nikolaos" tacked and lay close hauled in exactly the opposite direction to the course she had previously taken. The U-boat followed suit, but still refused to close. She flew no ensign, hoisted no signal—merely "marking time" on the felucca.

"What's she fooling about like that for, sir?" asked Mr. Gripper. "Is she funking it?"

"It's my belief that she's suspicious of something," replied the sub. "She's waiting till the sun is a bit higher. At present it's right behind us. Shouldn't be surprised if she started to shell us."

"It's a tidy range for our quick-firers," remarked the gunner dubiously. "Ten thousand yards; wonder if her guns are effective at that distance?"

A moment later the screech of a projectile was heard overhead, followed by the detonation of the U-boat's gun. The shell, striking the sea nearly a thousand yards beyond the felucca, ricochetted four or five times before finally disappearing beneath the surface.

The gunner gave a low whistle.

"That's some shot, Mr. Gripper," observed Nigel.

"It is, sir," agreed the warrant officer. "A high velocity and a flat trajectory. Did you notice something very peculiar? The projectile passed over us before we heard the report."

"Meaning that the velocity of the shell is greater than that of the sound."

"That's it, sir. Something new as far as U-boats' guns go."

Having made a trial shot the submarine fired again. This time the shell fell short, ricochetting and passing within fifty yards of the felucca's stern.

"She means business," declared Farrar. "There's only one thing to be done. Since she can do a good sixteen knots we can't give her the slip, so we'll try and close. Hoist the ensign. Bow gun open fire."

Sighted at the maximum elevation the felucca's four-inch replied to the U-boat's challenge. The projectile fell hopelessly short. Again the quick-firer spoke, with similar results. The gun was decidedly outranged.

For nearly twenty minutes the U-boat withheld her fire, maintaining her distance, and at the same time describing an arc of a circle in order to take advantage of the position of the sun. An overfed bulldog might just as well attempt to chase a greyhound as the felucca to close with her opponent.

With the White Ensign streaming proudly in the breeze the "Georgeos Nikolaos" maintained her vain attempt, firing with both guns at regular intervals. She was in a tight corner, for when the Hun settled down to work the result would be a foregone conclusion, unless aid from another source were speedily forthcoming. Already the felucca's wireless was sending out messages, but no responsive crackling came in reply to her call. The U-boat was jamming the wireless waves by means of her more powerful installation.

The men, although fully acquainted with their hazardous position, were in high spirits, laughing and chaffing as they lay prone upon the deck, for with the exception of the bluejackets serving the quick-firers they had been ordered to take the frail shelter provided by the felucca's bulwarks.

The "Georgeos Nikolaos" was now bows on to her opponent. Although unable to gain on the U-boat she nevertheless presented a smaller target than had she exposed the whole of her broadside. Under sail and power she was doing a good eleven knots, but it was practically useless compared with the submarine's sixteen or seventeen.

Suddenly a cloud of black smoke rose from the U-boat's deck. When it dispersed under the force of the stiff breeze Fritz was no longer to be seen.

"She's gone an' busted!" shouted an exuberant bluejacket, and the men gave vent to a cheer. Their satisfaction increased when, nearly half an hour later, the felucca sailed through a large patch of oil in the midst of which were floating some charred pieces of wood and several canvas-covered caps.

"A sixth nail in the tiller, sir," remarked the warrant officer. "Our thirteenth day out, you'll remember."

"Not so sure about it, Mr. Gripper," objected the sub. "In any case, we didn't strafe her. Ah! I thought so," he exclaimed, as the twin periscopes of the U-boat appeared at a distance of less than five hundred yards in the felucca's wake. "Wing her, Sampson."

The submarine was playing with her prey like a cat with a mouse. Under the camouflage of the clouds of smoke she dived, to reappear—this time astern of the "Georgeos Nikolaos."

Smart as was the gunlayer of the after quick-firer, the U-boat was smarter. Before the weapon could be swung round and the sights adjusted she had disappeared again.

When after a considerable interval the U-boat broke surface she was well out of range of the felucca's guns, although quite within a striking distance with her own, for a shell burst within a stone's throw of the British craft's quarter, the flying fragments knocking splinters from the bulwarks and holing the sails in twenty different places.

At Mr. Gripper's suggestion a tar-barrel with a long pole wedged into the bung-hole, and so weighted that the pole floated vertically, was quickly rigged up and thrown overboard. For a while it served its purpose, for the pursuing U-boat, spotting what appeared to be a periscope, sheered off until she had wasted half a dozen shells before blowing the barrel into a thousand fragments.

Then, her patience being exhausted, the U-boat set to work in grim earnest to pulverise the felucca. Completely outranged and outclassed, the "Georgeos Nikolaos" nevertheless put up a gallant fight, although none of her shells went within half a mile of her foe.

A direct hit brought both masts down, littering her deck with splinters, shouldering canvas, and a tangle of ropes. The ponderous lateen yards trailing over the side set up a drag against which the motor was powerless, and describing a quadrant of a circle the felucca lost way, broadside on to her assailant.

Already several of the men were stricken to the deck, some slain outright, others writhing in agony from severe splinter wounds. Amid the flying fragments of shells the youthful doctor set to work to render first aid, coolly heedless of the fact that the felucca was doomed.

The "Georgeos Nikolaos" was sinking. She was also on fire for'ard. The bow gun, with its disappearing mountings, had "disappeared" in a most unorthodox way, having been completely blown overboard, together with the men who served it. Yet not a soul on board gave one thought of surrendering. Although with few exceptions members of the auxiliary service, they were fully imbued with the glorious traditions of the White Ensign. So long as a plank remained under their feet, they were grimly determined to fight on, working the remaining gun in stubborn defiance, yet the while conscious that they were firing for firing's sake since the comparatively puny weapon was innocuous to the foe.

A fragment of shell struck down the gunner as he stood at Farrar's side. It was a dangerous wound, but beyond an ashy greyness of his features the staunch warrant officer gave no indication of his physical pain.

"Dash it all!" he exclaimed. "My luck's changed this trip—and the thirteenth too!" and straightway relapsed into unconsciousness.

A steady flow of warm fluid trickled over the sub's right eyebrow. Under the impression that it was perspiration he mopped it with his handkerchief, to discover that blood was running from a clean cut on his forehead. In the excitement he had failed to experience any sensation of pain when a splinter of flying metal struck him a glancing blow.

At length the U-boat ceased firing, for the felucca's after gun had been put out of action by a direct hit upon the open breech-block that had destroyed the intercepted thread-locking arrangement. Yet it seemed rather unusual for a Hun, getting the best of things, to cease fire as long as there was anything in the nature of a target to aim at.

One glance showed the sub the reason. The White Ensign had been blown away.

Another ensign was soon forthcoming. With one hand Farrar lashed it to a boat-hook staff, and defiantly displayed the emblem of freedom.

Fritz's reply was not long in coming. A shell struck the "Georgeos Nikolaos" just abaft the stump of the foremast, playing havoc on board and tearing a hole 'twixt wind and water. It was the coup de grâce. Half stifled by the pungent fumes of the T.N.T., his vision affected by the noxious smoke, the sub found himself striking out in a turmoil of broken water amidst a dozen or more of his devoted crew.

As the smoke dispersed, drifting in eddying clouds far to leeward, Farrar was able to obtain a clearer view of his surroundings. All around, the surface of the agitated sea was thick with pieces of timber of various sizes and shapes. Planks from the still-sinking vessel were shooting upwards through the air with terrific violence, to fall again and strike the water with resounding smacks. Twenty yards away floated the felucca's boat that had been wrenched from its securing lashings as the craft sank. It was keel upwards, a portion of the stern had been shattered, and there were other injuries from shell fire. No longer seaworthy the boat still served a purpose by supporting four or five bluejackets who were clinging to her bilge-keels.

A little farther away was the large part of the foremast with the lateen yards, and some of the scorched canvas still secured. Several men were already astride the spar, while others, some pushing planks before them, were making for the frail place of safety.

"Here's our skipper, lads!" shouted Sampson, who, with a stained bandage round his forehead and another encircling his left arm above the elbow, was astride the spar and busily engaged in securing planks to form a rough-and-ready raft. "Come on, sir; there's plenty of room in the stalls."

"I'm rather late for the performance, I think," replied the sub, recognising that cheerfulness would go a long way to "winning through."

"Not a bit of it, sir," replied the gun-layer. "The blessed overture's only just finished. Show that gentleman to one of the front seats, please. Sorry the programmes ain't printed, sir; put it down to shortage of paper."

Assisted by a couple of seamen, for the sub's strength had been heavily taxed, Farrar was lifted on to a long plank lashed between the yard and the broken foremast. Of the felucca's crew there were about twenty survivors, all showing visible tokens of the merciless shell fire. Mr. Gripper, still unconscious, was lying on the highest part of the raft; even there the waves were continually breaking over him, requiring the constant attention of a couple of hands to prevent his being washed into the sea. The surgeon-probationer was missing, inquiry eliciting the information that he was attending a badly wounded man in the main hold when the felucca foundered.

The survivors were, for the most part, boisterously cheerful—almost idiotically so. The disaster gave them a chance of breaking away from the restraint of shipboard, and like a crowd of children unexpectedly let out of school, they joked, chaffed each other, and even engaged in horseplay as they worked to make good their crazy raft.

Meanwhile the U-boat was standing by at a distance of a little less than a mile. Her deck was crowded, the crew coming up from below to gloat over their glorious victory, while on the conning-tower platform a group of officers was intently watching by means of telescopes and binoculars the efforts of the felucca's survivors.

This was practically the only part of the affair that riled the British bluejackets. They had groused when the U-boat had refused to throw away the advantage of her superior ordnance; they had taken their gruelling like true specimens of the bulldog breed; they realised that it was quite playing the game for the Hun to strafe them and "get her own back" on the armed felucca for her activity in ridding the sea of a few pirate craft. But the survivors objected strongly to Fritz standing by and jeering at their sorry plight. According to British notions it wasn't playing the game. Abandon the helpless men to their fate—that is expected of the Hun—but to remain within sight and crow over them, was almost as bad as if the U-boat had kept on firing until the massacre was completed.

"The best part of the day is before us, lads!" exclaimed their youthful skipper, although the tone of his voice sounded strained and unnatural. Now that the heat of the fight was over he was feeling the effects of his wound. There had been comparatively little loss of blood, and this had the effect of increasing the pain of the contusion, while the tightly adjusted bandage seemed to cut into his forehead.

"That's so, sir," replied one of the men. "But it's a long, long way to Malta. Guess we're making half a knot, sir."

"Wot's Fritz up to now?" inquired another, pointing in the direction of the hostile submarine.

The U-boat was forging ahead straight for the raft. Most of her crew were below, the others, save for the men at the for'ard quick-firer, were mustered aft.

At a cable's length away from the handful of survivors from the "Georgeos Nikolaos" she reversed engines, losing way within easy hailing distance. There were three officers on the navigating platform—a short man in the uniform of a kapitan-leutnant, an unter-leutnant, and a third in a great-coat, but showing no badges of rank.

"Where have I seen that josser before?" pondered Farrar. "By Jove, I have it! Von Loringhoven!"

The recognition was mutual, for the supernumerary officer pointed to the British sublieutenant and spoke a few rapid sentences to the kapitan-leutnant of the U-boat.

The latter turned and rapped out an order in hasty, guttural tones. With the utmost alacrity half a dozen hands unfolded a canvas boat, and launched her from the U-boat's deck. Manned by two seamen and the unter-leutnant, who held the tiller in one hand and ostentatiously brandished an automatic pistol in the other, the boat pulled towards the raft.

"You prisoner are," announced the German officer, addressing the sub. "Mit me you come must in dis boat."

"Let's fight it to a finish, sir," whispered Sampson. "We can do in this brass-bound swanker, and I reckon with his pistol I'll be able to score off those grinning Fritzes before we're knocked out."

Farrar shook his head.

"It's no use offering further resistance, Sampson," he replied. "They evidently require me rather badly. I don't want the hands to make any demonstration to upset the Huns. They seem pretty bad tempered as it is."

"Haste make!" snarled the unter-leutnant.

"Good luck, men!" exclaimed the sub. "I hope to see you again soon."

He stepped into the boat and was taken alongside the submarine. Under the direction of the unter-leutnant, the prisoner was removed below, hatches were battened down, and the disappearing guns lowered into the water-tight house. Judging by the kapitan-leutnant's excited orders the U-boat was in a hurry. She dived steeply and was lost to sight.

For some moments the handful of bluejackets on the raft gazed at the swirl that marked the spot where the U-boat had disappeared; then Sampson gave vent to a loud shout.

"Hurrah, my hearties!" he announced. "Here comes a destroyer."

The men cheered, but not with their customary vigour, for they remembered that they had lost their young commanding officer.

"An' another five minutes would have made all the difference," said one sententiously.

"No wonder Fritz was in a bloomin' hurry."

CHAPTER XXVII

IN THE HANDS OF THE HUNS

NIGEL FARRAR'S state of mind was far from being composed when he found himself under lock and key in the interior of the submerged U-boat. Apart from the physical pain and exhaustion, and the unaccustomed air in the confined space making his head throb with redoubled violence, his nerves were greatly overstrung. That was doubtless accentuated by his wound, but he tried to pull himself together like a true British sailor.

There was the disconcerting thought, too, that the U-boat stood a great chance of being strafed by the British destroyer, patrol-boats, and aircraft; and with a full knowledge of the terribly efficient means at submarine hunters' command the prospect was far from alluring. It was one thing, he reflected grimly, to chase a Fritz and blow him out of existence with depth charges; another to be most unwillingly in his company when the deed was done.

More than once the selfish wish flashed across his mind that he had taken the gun-layer's advice and fought it out. Better to die fighting than to perish miserably like a rat in a trap.... But it was for the best, after all... his men—comrades all—were still free, although their position a hazardous one.

Tormented by doubts and fears the sub spent a bad two hours, nor was the ordeal over when the door of his prison was thrown open and an electric torch flashed full in his face.

Dazzled by the sudden transition from pitch-black darkness to the blinding glare, Farrar stood bolt upright and stared with unseeing eyes at the Hun behind the light. His spell of mental depression had passed, and although his head was racked with pain, he faced his captor with a calm resolution that surprised himself.

He was under the mistaken impression that von Loringhoven confronted him, although on second thoughts he reflected that the Hun would hardly go to the inconvenience of interviewing the prisoner in such uncomfortable conditions. Nor could he satisfactorily account for any desire on his part for the Hun to see him, yet he could not banish the impression that it was von Loringhoven and none other.

Except for a brief interval when the kapitan-leutnant of the lost U 254 had been marched under escort from the "Antipas" to temporary quarters in Trecurnow, Farrar had never to his knowledge set eyes on him until a few hours previously, but von Loringhoven and the sub were alike in one respect—they had good memories for faces.

"Dis way; come quick!" exclaimed the German with the torch. The sub recognised the voice as that of the unter-leutnant.

In his still saturated, scorched, and badly torn uniform, and with a blood-stained bandage round his head, Nigel presented a forlorn appearance when he was unceremoniously ushered into the presence of von Loringhoven and the kapitan-leutnant of the U-boat in a fairly spacious cabin immediately below the elongated conning tower.

The submarine was still running beneath the surface, but the fear of pursuit was apparently at an end for the time being, since the kapitan-leutnant had handed over the control of the vessel to a quartermaster.

Since the commanding officer of the U-boat could not speak English the examination was carried out by von Loringhoven, who in turn translated, or mistranslated according to his own purpose, the prisoner's replies.

"What is your name?" demanded von Loringhoven.

Farrar told him.

"Ach! is that so?" exclaimed his questioner. "This is, to quote one of your English idioms, a little bit of all right.' Unless I am greatly mistaken you are the officer who shot my friend von Gobendorff in cold blood."

"It was an accident," corrected the sub. "I was rabbit-shooting, and quite by chance I wounded him slightly in his head. As to saying it was——"

"Accident?" interrupted von Loringhoven. "That is good. Whenever an Englishman does an underhand bit of work and he is discovered the excuse is, 'It is an accident.' However, that is one count against you. Now, what have you to say when I accuse you of being a common pirate, committing outrages under the cover of a Greek flag?"

"Surely he cannot have heard of the strafing of the U-boat that was shelling the 'Epicyclic's' boats?" thought the sub. "I'll say nothing about that."

"Come! Come!" pressed the Run. "Why hesitate in your reply?"

"What evidence have you as proof of your assertion?" asked Farrar.

"Evidence? My own eyes," explained von Loringhoven, laughing unpleasantly. "If you are such a fool as to go close under the stern of the ship I happened to be on—it was the British tramp 'Andromeda,' if that information interests you—it is not at all to be wondered at that I saw the Greek flag flying from your pirate craft?"

"It is permissible in the circumstances," said the sub shortly. "Germany has done the same thing times without number. Providing the hostile vessel under false colours replaces them by his own before opening fire it is a legitimate ruse de guerre. I think, however, that there is no justification of the conduct of certain of your submarines. I personally witnessed one engaged in shelling unarmed men in open boats."

"Oh!" sneered von Loringhoven. "Did you? Are you sure it was a German submarine?"

"She showed no number," replied the sub.

Von Loringhoven shrugged his shoulders.

"Even if she were," he continued, "you ought to recognise by this time that as far as Germany is concerned might is right. We do not admit of any outside interference in the conduct of the war, otherwise where should we be? If you English are such fools as to play at making war, allow yourselves to be hoodwinked by your statesmen who attribute every one of your numerous set-backs to the mysterious working of Providence—you know perfectly well that the words, 'Adverse weather conditions,' appear in almost every official report—that is to Germany's advantage. But to return to business. You are a pirate. As such you richly deserve to be shot without further delay, but we have motives for sparing your life, although I don't envy your lot."

The German spoke with rising temper. For some cause that the sub could not fathom he was venting his wrath upon the prisoner.

"From this time forward," resumed von Loringhoven, "you are dead as far as your friends are concerned. I need hardly inform you that Germany does not report the names of all prisoners in her hands. How do you like the prospect of toiling in mines until you die? Not pleasant, eh? There is one way of evading the punishment, however. Of that you will hear more later. Meanwhile I would advise you to give all the information we demand, without any attempt to deceive us, for you will assuredly be found out."

"In other words," exclaimed the sub, "you want me to be a traitor to my country. I'll see you to blazes first."

"The interview is at an end," declared von Loringhoven, in cold, measured tones, that had a sinister ring in their delivery. "For what you are to undergo you have only yourself to blame."

Unprotestingly Farrar was led back to his cell, an empty store-room in the fore part of the submarine, and immediately beneath the torpedo-tubes compartment. His resolute courage had reasserted itself. He no longer dreaded the attentions of a British destroyer; the satisfaction of knowing that a pack of cowardly Huns would be done in outweighing the fear of death, even in their unhallowed company.

For the next twenty-four hours he was kept in utter darkness; his food and drink during that period consisted of black bread of the consistency of plaster of Paris and a pitcher of water. He could not help contrasting his present position with that of certain German officers whom he had seen as prisoners on board British men-of-war. In the matter of food and drink they fared equally as well as did their captors; if wounded, they were given the best medical attention available, and their comfort was considered in almost every possible way. The ungrateful Hun, however, does not thank his captors for their little attentions. With the arrogance of his race he attributes his easy lot as a prisoner of war to the fear of the British as to what might happen to them when Germany is victorious. And on their part the British have yet to learn fully—as they are beginning to do—that the only thing the German fears is the force of armed might.

During the second day of his captivity Nigel was allowed to take exercise on deck in charge of a couple of alert seamen, who had been strictly enjoined to take every precaution lest the prisoner should leap overboard.

The U-boat was now within sight of land, for lofty ranges of mountains were visible on the starboard hand. She had evaded the Otranto patrols and was now in the comparatively safe waters of the Adriatic, and within easy distance of the numerous land-locked harbours of the Dalmatian coast, where, under the lee of a chain of islands, the battle-fleets of the world could lie undetected from the open sea save from the all-seeing eyes of an aircraft.

With a couple of German sailors standing with ready automatic pistols at a distance of twenty yards apart, the sub was compelled to walk briskly to and fro on the fore deck. Fortunately the sea was calm and the comparatively low-lying platform was practically free from the waves, although occasionally a crest would break inboard and swirl ankle-deep as far aft as the base of the conning tower.

Before Farrar had been five minutes at his enforced exercise the kapitan-leutnant, who had been intently watching something on the distant horizon, rapped out a string of orders, from which the sub was able to understand with his limited knowledge of German that the U-boat was about to dive.

Unceremoniously the prisoner was hustled below, and as he descended the vertical steel ladder of the for'ard hatchway, he heard a petty officer remark, "Fortunately we have but one torpedo. I cannot understand why, since we are so near our base, the kapitan should risk it."

"And against an armed warship, too," added the Hun to whom the remark was addressed.

"It is unreasonable. What is she?"

"One of those accursed monitors, I believe," replied the first speaker with a shrug of his shoulders; then, catching sight of the prisoner being hurried forward, he spat contemptuously.

"We have to thank these Englanders for all this," he added. "But for them the war would have been over long ago, and we should be drinking Munich beer in the beer-gardens of Wilhelmshaven instead of being cooped up here—perhaps everlastingly."

A gong sounded, orders were communicated to various parts of the submarine, as, with the hiss of water entering her ballast tanks and the muffled purr of the electric motors, the U-boat dived.

In his cell Farrar could hear the jumbled noise of a dozen or more different sounds. Once he fancied he heard the detonation of the impulse charge that liberated the torpedo. There was certainly a sharp horizontal movement that follows the release of the powerful self-actuated weapon. In vain he strained his ears for the crash of the explosion, but he certainly heard the subdued reports of several quick-firers in action.

It was not until three hours later that the U-boat rose to the surface and Farrar was permitted to resume his airing on deck. Judging by the disgruntled appearance of officers and crew, the attempt to torpedo the hostile vessel was a failure.

Long afterwards the sub heard that the craft attacked was a British monitor returning from certain important work in the Gulf of Venice. The U-boat's torpedo had "got home," but owing to the peculiar construction of the vessel attacked, the missile did very little harm beyond blowing away a few plates from the exaggerated space surrounding her interior or main hull, which in naval parlance is generally spoken of as the "old hooker's blisters."

Upon returning to his cell the sub, worn out by his exertions and privations, threw himself down upon a pile of empty sacks and was soon sound asleep. It seemed as if he had been slumbering only a few minutes when he was aroused by a couple of seamen standing over him. One held an electric torch; the other, having indicated that the prisoner should collect his scanty belongings, including his meagre stock of food, motioned the sub to go on deck.

It was a bright moonlit night. Not a breath of wind ruffled the waters of the enclosed harbour in which the U-boat lay. She was not alone, but moored in one of three tiers of submarines, some eighteen or twenty in all. Each craft was ingeniously camouflaged, light nettings being suspended fore and aft, the meshes of which were liberally sprinkled with freshly cut foliage, while the periscopes ended in tufts of broad-leafed evergreens.

On one side of the harbour was a small village fronted by a long wharf, on which electric cranes and locomotives were at work. Although not a light was visible in any of the houses and the large workshops on the higher ground beyond, the clearness of the moonlit air enabled the sub to take in most of the characteristic features of the place. Almost encircling what was undoubtedly a secret U-boat base was a range of lofty serrated hills, culminating on the northern side in three conical peaks of equal height.

Nigel Farrar's observations were cut short by the angry voice of the kapitan-leutnant.

"Fools, pig-dogs, imbeciles!" he roared, addressing the two seamen who had charge of the prisoner. "Did I not strictly enjoin you to blindfold the Englishman? Donnerwetter! You will pay dearly for this omission."

Possibly with the idea of mitigating the impending punishment by a belated display of zeal, or else with a vindictive desire to get even with their captive for trouble in store for them, although through no fault of his, the Huns seized the young British officer by the wrists, wound a strip of coarse canvas so tightly round his head as to threaten him with suffocation, and bundled him forward to a gangway that led over the bows to a pontoon.

Presently the yielding planks of the pontoon gave place to hard metalled ground, and the sub knew that he was once more on dry land. Stumbling over ring-bolts and railway lines, to the gross amusement of his gaolers, the prisoner was led for a distance of nearly a mile. All around he could hear sounds of activity, the hum of machinery, the rasping of metal, and the thud of numerous pneumatic hammers predominating, while the air reeked with the fumes of petrol and a peculiar, nauseating odour that the sub failed entirely to identify.

Engines, evidently drawing small trucks, judging by the noisy clatter, were passing and repassing continually, so close that Farrar distinctly felt the windage from the rapidly moving train and the blast of hot-oil-laden air in his face, for his captors had condescended to readjust the bandage so that it no longer impeded his mouth and nostrils.

Groups of men, marching rather than walking, were frequently passing, and coarse greetings in which reference was made to the blindfolded prisoner were bandied between them and the Huns, but the language in which they spoke, although it bore a certain resemblance to German, was almost incomprehensible as far as the sub was concerned.

Then one of the German seamen gripped Farrar's shoulder and guided him across what felt like a swaying plank bridge. An iron gate was opened and closed with a sonorous clang, and a rifle-butt grounded on hard stone.

"Sentry," thought the sub. "Seems like a tough nut to crack, but if there's a ghost of a chance I'm on it. Wonder what's coming next?"

Up a flight of stone steps and through a wicket gate set in a larger door the prisoner was led; then along a corridor into a room. The bandage was removed from his eyes, and in the glare of a number of electric lamps he found himself face to face with Ober-Leutnant Otto von Loringhoven. With the latter were four naval and military officers in German uniform, and another in what the sub rightly guessed to be that of the Emperor Karl of Austria.

"This is your last chance, prisoner," began von Loringhoven without any preamble. "Do you agree to give us all the information you possess on any subject of which we wish to obtain intelligence?"

"I gave you my answer," replied the sub fearlessly.

"Did you?" sneered the Hun, his lips curling menacingly, and displaying a row of teeth resembling the fangs of a wolf. "What was it?"

"I told you I'd see you to blazes first," said the prisoner. "And I'll stand by what I've said."

"Very good," rejoined von Loringhoven. "I trust that you will enjoy yourself in the sulphur mines of Ostrovornik."

CHAPTER XXVIII

"A SECOND KOPENICK HOAX"

SNOW was descending in large flakes upon the southern slopes of the rugged Riesen Gebirge, the lofty range of mountains forming part of the national and political boundary between the German Empire and its vassal state—the dual monarchy of Austro-Hungary. At three kilometres beyond the diagonally striped post marking the limits of Saxony a thin-faced, emaciated man, clad in garments little better than a collection of rags, was sheltering on the lee-side of a gaunt pine tree. From his features one would guess his age at anything between thirty to thirty-five, although his actual years were short of twenty. Privation, lack of sufficient nourishment, and hardships untold had prematurely aged him, yet there was a certain self-confidence in his bearing that refused to be smothered by adversity.

After stepping from under the trailing branches and glancing dubiously at the dark, snow-laden clouds, the wayfarer returned to his place of shelter, drew a small piece of black bread from his pocket and began to munch it ravenously.

"The Lord only knows where the next meal is coming from," he soliloquised—not flippantly, but with a sense of deep and reverent feeling. Although he had spoken nothing but German for the last sixteen days—and he spoke it with an accent that defied criticism—he thought in his mother-tongue, which was English.

For longer than he cared to think he had been a prisoner of war, one of those luckless civilians who on the outbreak of the Great War found themselves trapped within the limits of the German Empire; and up to a little more than a fortnight ago he had eked out a dismal and precarious existence in the vast detention camp at Ruhleben.

And now he was tasting of the sweets of freedom. He could walk, eat, and sleep without being under the constant surveillance of German guards. He had to walk stealthily; eating was reduced to a fine art—that of making a little of doubtful nutritious powers go a long way; sleeping consisted of dozing fitfully—often in the open and occasionally in the welcome shelter of a more than half-empty barn. But these discomforts were as naught compared with the drab monotony and depressing surroundings of Ruhleben. He bore them with an equanimity bordering upon exuberance, counting present vicissitudes as stepping stones towards his ultimate goal—his homeland.

The fugitive was a man of considerable reasoning powers. Arguing that his late captors would naturally conclude that he was making westward towards far-distant neutral Holland, he had decided to go south, risking the lesser danger of a journey through Austria, and seize a favourable opportunity of passing through the comparatively weak cordon between the Tyrol and the north of Italian Lombardy. The possibilities of escaping into Switzerland had entered into his calculations, only to be set aside. Bavaria offered too formidable a stumbling-block. There were ways and means on the Italian frontier, and he meant to try them.

The wayfarer's thoughts were rudely interrupted by the pulsations of a motor that was rapidly approaching from the direction he had just come.

"A Mercèdes, by Jove!" he exclaimed. "What brings a car along this unfrequented pass, when there are two at least, infinitely better engineered, within an hour's run? Hope to goodness I haven't been tracked."

Thankfully he noticed that his footprints had already been obliterated by the fast-falling snow. Then, throwing himself at full length behind a dead thorn bush, every branch of which was outlined with dazzling white powdery snow, he awaited the appearance of the approaching car.

He was not long kept in suspense. Swaying and lurching the huge Mercèdes swung into sight round a projecting spur of rock. With the bonnet, wind-screen, and dash-boards hidden by the accumulation of snow, and throwing showers of glistening flakes from the wheels, the car presented a picturesque spectacle one moment. At another it was a tangle of wreckage.

The catastrophe happened when the vehicle was abreast the solitary pine tree where the fugitive had been sheltering. There was a loud report as one of the tyres burst. The wheels skidding the car slewed sideways and toppled over the edge of the road upon a partly snow-covered rock fifty feet below.

Unhesitatingly the Englishman left his place of concealment and made his way over the slippery track formed by the skidding wheels, until he was able to look over the unguarded side of the road upon the wrecked car.

It was lying on its side, the fore part shattered almost beyond recognition, but the relatively frail coupé had come off comparatively lightly. The top was torn away and the glass windows smashed to fragments, but through the open roof the fugitive could see that the interior was almost intact, and that huddled on the floor was the figure of a man wearing a German officer's field overcoat.

Very deliberately and cautiously the Englishman descended the sloping cliff. It would have been an easy task but for the snow that lay thickly on the numerous ledges and had drifted into a deep bed, in which the car was partly buried.

Forgetting everything else in his eagerness to render aid, the fugitive plunged knee-deep through the drift and gained the overturned car. The door had jammed. With all the strength at his command he was unable to wrench it open. Clambering up the side of the coupé he dropped through the huge gap in the roof.

A brief examination of the body of the occupant was enough. The man was dead, although there were no signs of external injury.

"I can't help him," soliloquised the Englishman. "But he might be able to help me. I'll consider that part later. Meanwhile, what has happened to the chauffeur?"

Standing on the heavily cushioned seat he drew himself through the hole in the roof, and sliding down to the snowdrift proceeded to scramble over the thinly covered ledge of rock that alone had prevented the overturned car from crashing full four hundred feet into the valley beneath.

There were ghastly evidences of the fate that had overtaken the driver of the wrecked car. The force of the impact had hurled him bodily through the wind-screen and over the bonnet. Striking the projecting rocks he had glissaded into the abyss. A grey patch, already nearly obliterated by the falling flakes, was all that was visible of the soldier-driver of the demolished Mercèdes.

Returning to the car the Englishman thoughtfully contemplated the body of the dead officer. Then he scanned the edge of the road above, to make as certain as possible that no one was in sight. Satisfied on that point he contrived by dint of great exertion to drag the defunct German from the car and place him on the snowdrift.

"Very much my build. A bit fatter, though," he soliloquised grimly. "I'll risk it, though it would have been better if I could have appropriated the chauffeur fellow's uniform."

Rapidly he proceeded with his uncongenial task. Time was when he would have recoiled in horror at the mere suggestion, but the prize at stake was more than sufficient to overcome his natural qualms. Ten minutes later the fugitive was dressed in the uniform of a German Staff officer, while the body was laid in a shallow trench in the snowdrift.

"If this fall continues," said the Englishman to himself, "the wreckage will be completely covered in a couple of hours. Even now I doubt whether it would be noticed by any one proceeding along the pass. It will be weeks, perhaps months, before the snow disappears."

Returning to the interior of the damaged coupé the rehabitated fugitive found that the bulk of the dead officer's baggage had been flung from the roof and was for the present irrecoverably lost. Inside, however, was a portmanteau, while on the seat was a luncheon basket well stocked with choice eatables of a nature that had long been denied to all but the higher military caste of the German Empire.

In the fairly warm temperature of the coupé the Englishman rested comfortably, making a hearty meal, and washing it down with a glass of Rhenish wine. Then, lighting a cigar, he leisurely scanned the papers from the breast pocket of the officer's coat.

"By smoke!" he ejaculated, slapping his knee. "This is great—absolutely. I find that I am now Baron Eitel von Stopelfeld, Major of the 19th Reserve Hanoverian Regiment, engaged on special service in the Austrian Empire. Ah, here we are: private and confidential memorandum outlining my important duties—signed by the Kaiser's Head of the General Staff, too."

The instructions were to the effect that Baron von Stopelfeld was to make a tour of inspection of various military prison camps in the Austrian Empire, with a view of arranging for the transfer of a certain number of Serbian and Italian prisoners of war to Germany, to take the places of those Russian captives who, in view of the Muscovite surrender, were to be repatriated.

At the foot of the typewritten text was a paragraph in ordinary writing, reminding the delegate that he must also pay particular attention to the important matter mentioned in his recent interview with the Chief of General Staff; and, unless any news of vital interest rendered it expedient, the Baron was not to communicate either by letter or wire before the 19th.

"And to-day's the 12th," soliloquised the pseudo von Stopelfeld. "That gives me six clear days. Hullo, what's this?"

He stopped and picked up a telegraph form—crumpled, and with one corner burnt. It looked as if the Baron were in the act of destroying it when he was hurled to his death.

"Cipher, worse luck," muttered the Englishman. "Received at 9 a.m. on the 12th. Handed in at Berlin, delivered at Hirschberg; that's almost the nearest town across the frontier."

Further search revealed a complete set of maps, a road guide, and book containing the code. Upon the sudden crash the latter had fallen from the German major's hands and had slipped between the cushions.

Decoded the message ran:

"Above all things observe carefully any indications of disaffection in the ranks of our Allies, especially the Hungarian regiments. Do not commit your discoveries to writing. In particular make the acquaintance of Major Karl Hoffer, the commandant of the Ostrovornik mines disciplinary camp. On production of your credentials he will give you the latest formula for the manufacture of——"

The instructions ended in a word that did not appear in the code book, which was the only fly in the ointment that the Englishman had found.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "Why not? I'll risk it. After all's said and done a thundering lot of downright cool cheek often pays when you're in a tight corner. It would be a rattling good joke to be taken in an Austrian train to a convenient station near the frontier. Yes, dash it all! I'll try a second Kopenick hoax."

CHAPTER XXIX

A SURPRISE

HAVING refreshed, the fugitive gathered together a few portable articles that had belonged to the deceased Baron Eitel von Stopelfeld, including the portmanteau. Luggage, he decided, must be suffered in spite of the inconvenience of carrying it in the snowstorm; the major's sword, too, for experience had taught him that no swashbuckling, sabre-rattling Prussian officer goes far without that emblem of authority except when he is a prisoner of war.

It was a difficult task to regain the road, hampered as he was with his recently acquired possessions, but at length the pseudo baron achieved that part of the business. Viewed from the unfenced mountain pass the derelict motorcar was, as he had expected, almost hidden by a mantle of white.

Fortunately the wayfarer had the wind at his back, but even then his progress was laboriously slow. Never less than ankle-deep, often thigh-deep, the snow was rapidly increasing, until more than once the Englishman debated whether he should seek shelter until the storm abated.

"Might be days before it does," he mused, "and it's no joke being caught out in the mountains. At the first village I strike I'll have to pitch in a yarn how I, Major Baron Eitel von Stopelfeld, chance to be servantless and forced to carry my own luggage."

On and on he trudged, sternly resisting the tempting desire to rest. He knew the danger of halting in the snow when in a semi-torpid state and falling into a sleep that knows no wakening in this world. He was grateful, too, for the warmth of the great-coat, realising that his previously ragged garb would have been totally inadequate against the intense cold. For the next five kilometres the road was of a give-and-take order—rugged, undulating, and fully exposed to the now boisterous wind that howled down the pass; then, on rounding a right-angled bend the gradient was steeply on the downward path. Three thousand feet below lay one of the fairest of the Bohemian valleys, its verdant fields and the tops of graceful trees of the pine woods bathed in brilliant sunshine.

Not until he was below the snow-line did the traveller halt, partake sparingly of food and drink, and then set out boldly towards a wooden hamlet that nestled around a small church with a lofty, slender spire.

"That must be Ober Gersthof," decided the Englishman, referring to his map. "No railway within fifteen miles. Well, I reckon that I've done enough for to-day, so here's for the luxury of a bed. Now the question is: have I to treat these Bohemian peasantry in the same way as the Junkers deal with theirs? I suppose so, since Austro-Hungary, nominally an ally of Prussia, is actually a dependent and vassal state."

At about a mile from the village the bogus baron came across the first human being he had seen since the untimely, yet, in a sense, fortunate demise of Major von Stopelfeld. Ambling along a lane was a farm hand leading a low cart laden with a late autumn crop of hay. He was whistling blithely, his full features, tanned with exposure to wind and sun, and his fleshy arms contrasted forcibly with the shrunken, bloodless subjects of the German Kaiser.

The Englishman halted, put down his portmanteau, and imperiously beckoned to the countryman to hasten. This the man did, evidently out of good humour and a desire to render assistance, but his face showed no signs of the utter subservience of the menial Hun.

"I have been compelled by the storm to leave my carriage and servants at Teutelsfeld," announced the make-believe German officer, naming a village about ten miles away and far to the east of the pass through which he had come. "I desire to get to the railway at the nearest station."

"That is at Reichenberg, a good six hours' journey, Herr Offizier," replied the man respectfully, yet without any sign of cringing.

"Is there a good inn here?" inquired the Englishman, pointing towards the village. "A good inn, mind."

"The 'Three Feathers,' mein herr," answered the peasant. "If you will let me, I will carry your baggage and direct you to the door."

This the peasant did, receiving a mark note for his services, for the "major" found himself well provided with paper currency in addition to silver money equivalent to £3 in British coinage.

The landlord accepted the traveller's explanation without demur, being of a simple open nature, and after a plain but substantial meal the Englishman went to bed, reflecting that but for the difference in language and the characteristic Bohemian scenery he might have been in a rural village in his native land.

Early next morning the pseudo baron hired a conveyance which set him down at Reichenberg just before noon. At the station were hundreds of reservists and a fair sprinkling of Austrian officers; and not without certain feelings of trepidation the Englishman took a first-class ticket for Vienna.

Arriving at the Austrian capital he had abundant evidence of the war weariness and social stagnation of the once gay city. Although he encountered several officers in German uniform none noticed him beyond exchanging punctilious salutes, compliments that were indulged in by the Austrian soldiery, but with ill-concealed reticence, for everywhere the idea was growing that the Dual Monarchy was being bled white at the behest of Germany.

That same evening the supplanter of the Kaiser's envoy found himself at Judenburg, a small town in Styria, almost under the shadow of the lofty Noric Alps. It was not his fault that he had not gone farther, but a slight landslip had rendered the railway unsafe at a short distance beyond the town, so perforce he had to remain.

Having secured a room at the chief hotel and signed the register, the Englishman was preparing for a quiet evening, when the aged waiter knocked at the door.

"Pardon, Herr Offizier," he exclaimed deferentially. "A gentleman to see you."

"A mistake," declared the fugitive in a loud voice. "I know no one here, nor do I want to see strangers."

"But it is a person of rank who would speak with you, mein herr. Behold his card!" And he tendered a piece of pasteboard on a wooden tray, for the hotel's silver salver had long since gone to augment the depleted coffers of the Emperor Karl.

The Englishman took the card. His eyebrows contracted as he read the name. Major Karl Hoffer, Officer-Commandant of the prison camp of Ostrovornik.

"I've been and gone and done it now," muttered the bogus baron. "This is the result of flying high. Fortunately he's a stranger to the real von Stopelfeld; but it seems as if I'm booked for the Ostrovornik trip. Another day wasted—hang it!"

"Show him in," he ordered, and snatching up his sword he hastily buckled his scabbard to the slings of his belt, twirled his waxed moustache (he had remarked the genuine baron's hirsute adornment, and his elaborately fitted dressing-case had proved very useful to its new owner) and adjusted the well-fitting tunic.

The jingle of spurs and the clank of a scabbard trailing a cross the oaken floor were the sounds that heralded the approach of the distinguished Austrian. The door was thrown wide open, and the waiter, in a joint capacity of major-domo, sonorously announced the name and title of the visitor.

The Austrian officer stepped briskly three paces into the room, halted, clicked his heels, and saluted, the Englishman likewise standing smartly to attention and returning the compliment.

"Well, major," said the latter, signing to his guest to take a chair. "This is a pleasant but unexpected surprise."

"I happened to see your name on the register, baron," replied Hoffer, "and knowing that you were due to visit my establishment I anticipated the meeting. I understand that you are relieving me of the care of a hundred rascally Serbs and Italians. I wish you joy of them."

For some minutes the two men discussed the merits and demerits of the various nationalities of the prisoners of war, while the supposititious baron ordered a couple of bottles of wine.

Under the influence of the juice of the grape Karl Hoffer waxed injudiciously communicative.

"That is a mightily efficient gas you are manufacturing at Ostrovornik," remarked the Englishman.

"Yes," replied the Austrian. "Perhaps you are already aware that this district is practically the only place in Central Europe where sulphur is found in large quantities. This deposit was only discovered since the war. The trouble was that the gas was so efficient that we lost hundreds of prisoners during the experimental stages—not that it mattered much since they were prisoners, except that the new drafts had to be instructed: a tedious business, as you can well imagine. Until we hit upon an effectual antidote we lost men at the rate of twenty a day. The symptoms? Acute irritation of the epidermis, quickly followed by paralysis of the limbs. Death will ensue within twenty minutes. Curiously enough, the gas does not affect the respiratory organs. It is a remarkably efficacious weapon to employ against our enemies."

The Austrian leant back in his chair and laughed heartily. The gruesome details seemed to afford him intense amusement.

"Then you found an antidote?" asked the Englishman, with well-assumed indifference.

Major Hoffer leant forward and lowered his voice to a husky whisper.

"Like most things: simple when you know, baron," he replied. "We tried canvas overalls steeped in hyposulphite of soda—no good; india-rubber solution—equally non-effectual. The gas seemed to eat its way through with hardly any perceptible delay in its action. Glass is impervious to it, but a soldier cannot fight in a glass case."

He paused to watch the effect of his communication, more than half expecting the "baron" to ask him to continue. Had he done so, the Austrian might have drawn into his shell and put his questioner on the wrong scent.

The Englishman offered no remark, but merely refilled his guest's glass.

"Yes," resumed Major Hoffer, "it is a simple preventative—quite accidentally discovered, although the English and Americans would be most glad to know what it is. Hypo-sulphite of soda, alum in solution, and vaseline, all applied to thin canvas overalls and masks, the alum being merely to render the textile fabric non-inflammable."

The conversation was maintained for the best part of an hour, the Austrian officer doing his level best to impress that he was very much "in the know"; while the Englishman, by discreet questioning, obtained a vast store of valuable information.

"Then I will see you to-morrow at eleven," said Hoffer, as he rose to take his departure. "If I were you, baron, I would recommend that Italian prisoners only be taken for the work that your Government proposes to start. They are better than the Serbs, especially the Sicilians and Neapolitans who have previously been employed in their native sulphur mines. I suppose it would be too much to ask you to arrange for the transfer of an English prisoner?"

"An English prisoner?" repeated the supposed German officer. "For what reason?"

Major Hoffer shrugged his shoulders.

"Personally I do not like the responsibility of him," he explained. "We Austrians have not nearly so much hatred for England as you Germans, if you will pardon my saying so. I received the prisoner very unwillingly. He was landed from one of your U-boats at an Adriatic port, and he ought, I take it, to be placed in a German camp. A kapitan-leutnant—Otto von Loringhoven, brother to the Julius von Loringhoven of Zeppelin fame practically insisted that I should receive the prisoner for work in the sulphur mines. Why, I know not."

"What is the prisoner's name?" asked the sham baron.

The Austrian shook his head.

"I cannot say off-hand," he replied. "In fact, I think he appears on the list of prisoners only as a number."

"Is he tractable?"

"Like a caged bear; but by cutting down his rations we have tamed him a bit. Starve an Englishman, and you develop the comparatively mild strain of the Latin and Gallic blood in his veins; feed him, and the hardy Teutonic, Norse, and Keltic characteristics become paramount. That's the secret, I fancy, of the mongrel British nation. A cross-bred dog is invariably hardier than a pure-bred animal."

"Then there ought to be a future before the Austro-Hungarian Empire," remarked the Englishman.

"Alas, no," rejoined Major Hoffer. "There seems to be a hard-and-fast line between the German Austrians and the Magyars. They are like two large tributaries running into one broad channel, flowing side by side, but each preserving its characteristics; for instance, like the swift-flowing Rhone and the sluggish Saône after their confluence at Lyons."

"I'll see this Englishman," decided the pseudo baron. "If you want to get rid of him, a little German discipline will work wonders. The prisoner interests me. So much so that I feel inclined to take him in hand myself. You can spare two soldiers to guard him?"

"Half a dozen, if you like," replied Major Hoffer, only too glad to escape the after-consequences of having charge of a British naval officer, who, according to the rules of war ought to be receiving honourable treatment. "And you will make a point of writing to von Loringhoven and explaining matters?"

"Two men will be sufficient," said the Baron, studiously ignoring the second question, but resolving at some future date to communicate with the vindictive von Loringhoven.

At the appointed hour the Englishman, arrayed in the full splendour of his "borrowed" trappings, presented himself at the wicket-gate in the double-barbed wire fence surrounding the Ostrovornik sulphur mines. A guard of honour composed of Hungarian reservists turned out and saluted, the distinguished visitor noting with a certain amount of satisfaction that the men did not show any great signs of mental alertness. They were of a type used to being ordered about, and accustomed to carry out their instructions with stolid acquiescence.

Within the inner fence the baron was met by Commandant Hoffer, who still bore traces of the bout of hard drinking in which he had indulged, both in the supposed von Stopelfeld's company and afterwards.

"I have just received a telegram from my senior lieutenant," remarked the "baron." "He is still held up at Lietzen, owing to the railway being disorganised. You will, I trust, excuse the absence of my staff?"

"Certainly, baron," hiccoughed the Austrian officer. "You wish to begin by making an inspection of the gas-producing plant?"

The spurious von Stopelfeld facetiously poked his fingers against the commandant's ribs.

"We know each other now," he exclaimed. "I'll leave out the actual inspection—not that I have no faith in your anti-gas protector, major, but simply because I hate exertion. You might show me the register of prisoners. Oh, no; I don't want to inspect the men."

"But the Englishman?" inquired Major Hoffer, as he led the way to the office.

"Oh, I forgot all about him," rejoined the "baron," with well-feigned indifference. "Is he fairly tractable to-day?"

"You will soon see, baron," replied the Austrian commandant, and calling to a sergeant he bade him take a file of men and bring Prisoner No. 445 to the office.

After the lapse of about ten minutes the sergeant knocked at the door.

"The prisoner, Excellency," he announced.

"Bring him in," growled Major Hoffer.

{Illustration: "'GOOD HEAVENS! IT'S OLD SLOGGER.'" [p. 325.}

The next instant a gaunt, jaundiced-featured man was unceremoniously bundled into the room. In spite of his rags, his bent shoulders, and emaciated limbs he bore himself proudly, almost disdainfully, ready to meet whatever the fates doled out with the fortitude of a British officer.

"Good heavens!" exclaimed the bogus baron, in his unbounded astonishment completely forgetting his "Kopenick stunt." "It's old Slogger!"

CHAPTER XXX

COMRADES IN A STRANGE LAND

"WHAT did you say, baron?" asked Major Karl Hoffer.

The supposed von Stopelfeld pulled himself together. Giving the prisoner a swift glance that conveyed a warning, he turned to the Austrian, thankfully remembering that the latter knew no English.

"I told the fellow to stand to attention," replied the "baron" mendaciously. "Himmel! he looks a scarecrow. Nevertheless, he interests me. Do your men speak English?"

"No, baron."

"That is unfortunate. For my part I loathe having to make use of the jargon. I would far rather that others cross-questioned the fellow. Does he speak German?"

"He does, but he won't," replied the major. "A more obstinate mule I never had to deal with."

"You know me, Slogger?" asked the spurious Hun.

"Yes," replied Farrar slowly, almost reluctantly. "You're Sylvester, usually known as the Moke. But since you are wearing an enemy uniform and are presumably a traitor I want no truck with you."

"Don't be an ass, Slogger!" said the Moke hoarsely, in order to keep up the rôle of an arrogant Hun. "And stick to your defiant attitude. I'll explain. Got away from Ruhleben, changed clothes with a Fritz and assumed his name and rank. Quite by accident I came here, and it may prove a fortunate occurrence. Hope so, for I'll do my level best to get you away."

"Sorry I did you an injustice, old bird," said the sub. "I was rattled, I expect. This life is hell.... Think you'll manage it all right? Without landing yourself in the cart, I mean."

"I'll take my chance at that," replied Sylvester. "We'll sink or swim together. Passive resistance is your cue. Now, I must switch off and tackle the commandant."

"What do you think of the prisoner, baron?" inquired Major Hoffer.

"Not much," replied Sylvester brusquely. "He looks to have the strength of a rat. He will be handy, however, with his experience, and he'll be made to work. What a droll situation! Making poison gas to be used against his own country. Oh, yes. Send two men with him. I'll take all responsibility. Now for the register."

Borrowing a blue pencil the bogus Eitel von Stopelfeld went through the list of prisoners' names, former occupations, and present employment, "ticking off" the required number.

"You will require a special train for that crowd, baron," observed Major Hoffer. "After all, would it not be better to send the Englishman with the others?

"Perhaps.... No; I think we will keep to our original plan. I have reasons. That is all, major. It will indeed be a pleasure for me to recommend you to my illustrious master, the German Emperor; so do not be surprised if in due course you receive l'ordre pour le Mérite. You deserve it, upon my word."

"I have already sent the prisoner on foot," explained the Austrian commandant. "The escort will arrive at Judenburg at the same time as your car, so there is no hurry. A bottle of wine?"

The Moke declined.

"My head aches already," he protested. "Perhaps it is the reek of the sulphur fumes. Let me see; there is a train for Salzburg at three?"

"That is so, baron. It arrives at Salzburg at seven, which means that you will be in Munich by nine."

At Judenburg station Sylvester found his chum standing between two heavily built, sullen-featured Magyars, with rifles and fixed bayonets, while a small crowd composed of old men, women, and children gazed in open-mouthed interest at the prisoner and his guards.

Outwardly ignoring the sub's presence Sylvester swaggered into the ticket-office and ordered the woman in charge to issue a pass for an officer and three men to Salzburg.

"Do not answer any questions from any one except with my permission," cautioned the supposititious von Stopelfeld, addressing the Hungarian soldiers.

"Your will is our command, Excellency," replied one of the men in halting German.

Upon the arrival of the train the bogus baron boarded a first-class carriage, while Farrar and his escort were placed in a fourth-class compartment. The Moke had no more intention of going even as far as Salzburg than he had of making for the North Pole. He knew that the escort had no notion of their present destination, and holding the railway pass he could easily browbeat the train officials. He also knew that by not changing at a certain junction he would be carried in the opposite direction, through Klagenfurt and Laibach to Trieste. His plan was to find a pretext for dismissing the two soldiers, obtain a suitable disguise for his chum, and for the pair to slip across the Italian frontier. In any case he had good reasons for not going as far as Trieste.

The journey was a tedious one. A constant stream of troop trains bound for the Piave front had the effect of holding up the ordinary traffic almost hourly, and it was dusk before the fugitives reached a little out-of-the-way village in Carniola, and about fifty miles from the head of the Adriatic.

Under the pretext that there was no wagon à lit attached to the train, and roundly abusing the Austrian railway authorities for their neglect to provide for the comfort of German officers, the Moke ordered the prisoner and escort out of the carriage, redoubling his torrent of invective when he learnt that the village was two miles from the station.

"You will remain here with your prisoner," he ordered, pointing to an isolated farmhouse. "There will be accommodation for you in a stable, and with a strong lock on the door the prisoner will be safe."

"Very good, Excellency," replied the senior soldier.

With the last of the fading daylight glinting dully upon the fixed bayonets the men marched their prisoner towards the house. As they approached there was the piercing shriek of a woman's voice, while almost at the same moment the figure of a man, bending low, darted from the side of the building and fled across the adjoining fields.

"Now what's the trouble?" soliloquised the Moke.

He was not long left in doubt, for a grey-haired woman appeared, wringing her hands and begging the officer to have mercy.

Quickly Sylvester grasped the situation. The man he had seen escaping was a deserter, the woman his mother. Under the impression that the soldiers were coming to arrest her son the woman was frantic, knowing full well the strict penalties for harbouring a deserter and the far more severe punishment for the fugitive, should he be caught.

With reluctantly assumed harshness the Moke questioned the mother at great length, purposely giving the deserter time to get well away. Her son's uniform and equipment, he discovered, were hidden under the hearth-stone.

"Bring them here," ordered the supposed officer. "Is there no one else living here?"

"Only my grandson, and he is but nine years old," replied the woman. "He is asleep."

"Good enough," decided the Moke. "This is a bit of luck, but hanged if I want to get the old dame into trouble. If I lock her up her grandson will release her in the morning; but how about Slogger's escort?"

Ordering the deserter's mother into a room Sylvester locked the door, leaving the key in the lock. Then, making use of the late Baron Eitel von Stopelfeld's official correspondence form, he wrote a request to the Provost-Marshal of Laibach, asking him to keep the bearers of the letter under arrest until he, Major von Stopelfeld, appeared to lay a charge against them of conduct prejudicial to military interests.

"Can either of you read?" demanded the supposed officer, as he rejoined the escort waiting without.

"No, Excellency."

"Thick-headed louts!" grumbled the Moke. "See to what trouble you have put me. Lock the prisoner in yonder barn, and show this letter to the station-master. He will direct you further. Carry out his instructions and deliver this letter to the person to whom it is addressed and none other. You understand?"

"Yes, Excellency."

"Then hasten; you ought to return here by midnight."

The two soldiers, strangers in a strange district, saluted and hurried away, glad to be clear of the obnoxious influence of the Hun who was temporarily their commanding officer.

The Moke waited until he was fairly certain that the coast was clear; then he unlocked the door of his chum's place of incarceration.

"How about a good tuck-in, Slogger?" he asked briskly.

"Right-o, Moke!" was the cheery reply, recalling long-past tuck-shop days in peaceful England.

A search in the farmhouse larder provided a rye loaf, a piece of freshly made cheese, and a portion of a meat-pie. This, with a hastily prepared salad and a bottle of wine, furnished a substantial repast. Both men were hungry, Farrar especially, and hardly a word was exchanged until the sub announced that he was "properly whacked," and "down to Plimsoll line."

"Now change," suggested the Moke, indicating the deserter's uniform. "For the next few hours you are my soldier servant. We'll make for the marshes east of Livenza. According to well-authenticated reports I hear that there are large numbers of Austrian deserters who lurk there and live on the fish that they catch and the food they steal from the Italian peasantry. The Austrians have not sufficient military police to stop the desertions; in fact, several of the policemen desert themselves. If we are stopped before we get there I'll have to spin a plausible yarn."

"That's all very well," objected the sub as he struggled into an ill-fitting tunic; "but the nearer we get to the lines the greater risk we run of being closely examined. I can quite understand your being able to ape the blustering Hun in the interior of the Austrian Empire, but there are numerous German troops on the Italian front, and they are dead nuts on detecting spies. I don't fancy dangling at the end of a rope."

"Nor do I," admitted Sylvester, perhaps for the first time realising the extreme penalty that he had been incurring by his Kopenick stunt. "Can you suggest anything better? That's the main point."

"The sea," replied Farrar. "That's our trump card. Provided we strike the coast at a reasonable distance from Trieste, Fiume, or Pola there's not much risk of being snapped up by the Austrian patrol boats. Our monitors and the Italian destroyers are top-dog in the Adriatic, you'll find."

"But we can't swim across to Italy," objected the Moke. "Even Leander wouldn't have taken on that contract—not for a dozen Heros."

"There's bound to be a fishing-boat we can collar," continued the now optimistic sub. "You pilot me to the coast, Moke, and I'll pilot you across the ditch."

"All right," agreed Sylvester. "Let's make a move."

Just as they were about to leave the farmhouse Sylvester suddenly had an idea. He went upstairs and knocked on the door of the room in which the old woman was under lock and key.

"I have decided not to report your son's desertion, or your complicity," he announced. "For reasons best known to myself I have formed this decision. If you mention a word of the matter to any one the consequences will be extremely serious to all parties concerned. You will therefore deny all knowledge of any person or persons visiting this house to-night."

With copious blessings and thanks the Austrian mother faithfully promised to carry out Herr Offizier's instructions, and the Moke departed with the firm conviction that he had covered his tracks in this direction. By the time Farrar's late escort had been released and had told their story, he reflected, the men would be so thoroughly bewildered that it was a question whether they would remember where they had been, much less recognise the house, while they knew nothing of the deserter's flight.

Satisfied on that score Sylvester rejoined his companion and, steering a course by the stars, walked briskly towards the still distant coast, the two taking turns at carrying the Baron's portmanteau. Knowing the valuable nature of its contents the Moke was reluctant to abandon the trophy.

Avoiding the villages and keeping at a distance from the indifferent roads the fugitives "carried on" for the best part of two days, until just as the sun was on the point of setting they reached the summit of a long, rugged range of hills. Beyond they could see what appeared to be a bank of mist, tinted crimson in the declining rays. To the Moke it was a fog bank and nothing else; but to the sub the sight meant something far different.

"Thalassa!" he exclaimed joyously.

CHAPTER XXXI

A DASH FOR FREEDOM

THE ecstasy of Xenophon's Ten Thousand at the sight of the sea could not have exceeded the sub's feelings of thankfulness at the distant view of the placid waters of the Adriatic. To him the sea called—the welcome greeting of freedom. Beyond was England, Home, and Beauty—the latter personified in the name of Winifred Greenwood. True, there was a large slice of land intervening, but what mattered that the breadth of Italy and France lay between him and England? The sea was the key to freedom.

Sylvester hardly regarded the expanse of water in the same light. For one thing he was a bad sailor, for another he had grave doubts about being able to make a passage across the huge land-locked sea without being overhauled and recaptured by an enemy craft. Personally he would have preferred hours, perhaps days, of discomfort in the Piave marshes, and take the chance of gaining the Italian lines, rather than trust himself to the mercies of wind, waves, and the enemy craft.

Acting solely off his own bat he was resolute and resourceful; but in the presence of the sublieutenant the latter's forceful personality held almost absolute sway.

"Only another five miles," declared Farrar. "We'll have to go slow. If this coast is patrolled only half so efficiently as that of the British Isles it will be no walk over. When do we discard this gear?"

He indicated the uniform they were wearing: The Moke smiled grimly. Since his chum had been obliged to ask his advice his directive force reasserted itself.

"When we have decent clothes to put on," he replied. "Meanwhile, until we get afloat—and that's where you direct operations—I am still Baron Eitel von Stopelfeld, and you are my Austrian servant and lug my gear. Imagine yourself a fag again, Slogger."

"But my rotten German would give me away as soon as I opened my mouth," objected the sub. "Have you considered that flaw in the contract, Moke, my festive?"

"Certainly," replied Sylvester gravely. "It occurred to me almost as soon as we left the farm. You'll have to be deaf and dumb through shell-shock. I'll do the explaining."

The chums relapsed into silence, which was for them a fortunate circumstance; for on gaining the outskirts of a small wood they ran up against a block-house.

The levelled bayonet of a sentry brought them up all standing. Flight was practically impossible, for the starlight was so bright that there was an almost certainty of being shot down before they could run half a dozen yards.

"It's all right," declared the Moke. "I am a German officer on special service, bound for Trieste, but my car has broken down."

The sentry made no effort to recover his arms. Without replying he whistled softly, and a sergeant and half a dozen men issued from the outpost.

"Your papers, Herr Offizier?" demanded the non-com.

"Certainly, if your instructions require you to see them," replied the pseudo German major.

The sergeant inspected them by the light of the lantern. He made no attempt to read them, for the simple reason that he was one of the Austrian army's high percentage of illiterates.

"These are quite in order, Herr Major," he exclaimed. "But this man —who is he?"

"My servant," replied the Moke, high-handedly. "He is deaf and dumb, having been, I understand, an artillery man at the Skroda Works. Donnerwetter! Why such a dolt was foisted on to me I cannot imagine."

"But he wears an infantryman's uniform," persisted the sergeant, holding the lantern above his head and peering into Farrar's face.

"Do you doubt a German officer's word, numbskull?" thundered the "baron" in the typically blustering tone in which the military caste address their rank and file, "Have you never heard of a man being transferred from one branch of the army to another? You are wasting my time. I feel inclined to report the delay. Is there a field officer anywhere about?"

"Pardon, Herr Major," stammered the overwhelmed sergeant. "Pray overlook the matter."

"For this once, then," said the Moke magnanimously. "Now tell me: can I obtain a conveyance of any sort to take me to Trieste?"

The sergeant pondered.

"I am afraid not, Herr Major. It is a very rough road. But——"

"But what?" demanded Sylvester, doing his level best to flurry the already disconcerted man.

"One of the coast patrol boats puts into the fishing port here on her way to Trieste. She is due at a few minutes after midnight. They might give you a passage."

"I loathe sea passages," objected the Moke. "Is it a large craft?"

"Fairly, Herr Major. She carries only three men—a petty officer, a seaman, and a motor mechanician; occasionally she carries military officers from the various ports when they wish to visit Trieste. I will send and ask my commanding officer's permission for you to take a passage in her."

"Major Aufferich has gone to Laibach, sergeant," announced one of the men in a stage whisper.

"Then I can give you authority on my own responsibility, Herr Major," continued the non-com. "I will also send a man to guide you to the fishing-port."

He seemed most anxious to make amends for the affront he had occasioned in a perfectly legitimate display of zeal. The Moke pondered over the matter, until catching Farrar's eye he plainly read the sub's acceptance of the proposal.

"All right, sergeant," decided the spurious Hun. "Send a man, by all means. He can help my man to carry my luggage, but he'll find him a most uncommunicative comrade."

A thought flashed across the Moke's mind.

"What is the countersign, sergeant?" he asked.

"Good man," thought Farrar. "The old Moke's 'cuteness has developed enormously. There are no flies on him, by Jove!"

"The countersign is Scharfschutze und Huszar, Herr Major," announced the sergeant; then turning to one of his men: "Josef, conduct His Excellency to the harbour. Inform Corporal Herz that he is to signal the patrol boat to wait and embark an illustrious passenger.... Everything will now be in order, Herr Major."

The guard stood rigidly at attention until the Moke's increased party had covered the regulated distance. Then the sergeant's voice was heard ordering the men to dismiss, and with a heavy tramping of feet and clattering of accoutrements the men returned to the shelter of the block-house.

Once during the journey to the coast the Austrian offered some remark to his supposed fellow-soldier. The Moke turned on him sharply.

"Silence, fool!" he hissed. "Did you not hear me say that my servant is deaf and dumb? Take the luggage from him. He is tired."

The soldier slung his rifle and relieved Farrar of the portmanteau. The sub was glad of the respite, since he had had more than his fair share of carrying it.

"It is infernally dark just here," grumbled the "baron," as they came to a narrow part of the road as it wound between two rocky heights. "Lead on, and show me the way."

Taking advantage of the Austrian being some ten paces ahead, the Moke withdrew the defunct von Stopelfeld's automatic pistol from his holster and handed it to the sub.

"That's more in your line," he whispered.

Farrar nodded. Although the weapon was of a different pattern from those to which he was accustomed, he felt confident that he could make use of it effectually if occasion offered. In any case it would be useful for purposes of intimidation.

The countersign passed them through the lines surrounding the fishing hamlet, and by the time they gained the water's edge it was close on midnight.

Being a port of slight military importance, a corporal's guard was deemed sufficient to maintain order, the non-com.'s duty being chiefly to prevent any of the fishing craft entering or leaving the harbour between sunset and sunrise, while at regular intervals an Austrian naval patrol boat looked in to ascertain that the military maintained watch and ward.

Corporal Herz received the sergeant's instructions without emotion, and as a long dark grey boat crept with throttled engines round the southern headland of the harbour, two red lights were hoisted from a flagstaff at the extremity of the rough wharf.

Cautiously, as if afraid of the locality, the motor-launch drew alongside the flight of stone steps. The coxswain gripped the handrail with his boathook, while the bowman performed a similar duty for'ard. Although the boat displayed no lights, there was sufficient starlight to enable the fugitives to satisfy themselves that on this occasion the boat carried no other passengers.

"Any orders, Herr Major?" asked the coxswain, as the Moke, Farrar, and the portmanteau were deposited in the spacious stern sheets.

"None," replied Sylvester curtly. "You have plenty of petrol, I hope. Last time one of your patrol boats caused me to miss a court of inquiry from a lack of petrol."

"Enough for four hours' run at fifty kilometres an hour, Herr Major," replied the cox swain obsequiously. He was a little, fussily important man who, the Moke decided, was like a gasbag; the bowman was of a different type—tall, broad-shouldered, and stolid. The third member of the crew, the artificer in the motor-room, was invisible. It was unlikely that he would cause much trouble.

"Cannot I have a lamp in the cabin?" asked Sylvester.

"I will see to it, Herr Major," replied the petty officer. "If the windows are screened it is permissible, but there would be much trouble if a single ray of light were allowed to escape."

He shouted an order to the bowman. The latter, his immediate work completed, had laid aside his boat-hook and was meditating a retirement to the fore-peak. Presently he came aft with an unlighted lantern. This he fixed in the cabin, drew shutters over the square panes of glass in the sides of the raised cabin-top, and finally lighted the lamp.

"It is ready, Herr Major," reported the coxswain.

The patrol boat was now clear of the harbour. The open sea was as smooth as a mill-pond. Not another craft of any description was in sight.

Farrar, shivering in the night air in his thin, shoddily made uniform, watched his companion with envious eyes as Sylvester entered the cabin. In the rôle of officer's servant he was experiencing several of the inconveniences that it is the lot of a common soldier to have to grin and bear.

There was no time to be lost, for the sooner the Moke put his plan into execution the better. Every revolution of the motor-boat's twin propellers was taking her nearer Trieste—and Trieste was a most unhealthy locality as far as the bogus Baron Eitel von Stopelfeld was concerned.

A hasty glance round the cabin revealed the presence of three revolvers in a rack. Jerking back the chambers Sylvester discovered that they were fully loaded. Deftly he extracted the cartridges from two of the weapons and put them in his pocket, grimly reflecting that there was a time, not so very far distant, when the mechanism of a revolver was a mystery to him. Not that he never wanted to know "how it worked," but because he had a horror of the sight of firearms of any description.

The three revolvers he slipped into the outside pocket of his great-coat, since the pistol would not fit the holster from which he had taken the automatic to give to his chum.

Stepping from the cabin into the cockpit the Moke waited until his eyes grew accustomed to the comparative darkness of the night; then he turned abruptly and addressed the coxswain.

"Any craft in sight?" he asked.

"No, Herr Major," replied the man.

"That is good," rejoined Sylvester. "I want you to steer due west."

For once at least the petty officer hesitated to obey orders. His illustrious passenger had authority, but whether a German military officer could issue peremptory instructions to an Austrian petty officer was a proposition that gave rise to doubts in the coxswain's mind. If he disobeyed, the consequences might be serious, if on returning to Trieste his superior upheld the German's action. That was one of the many curses that the hated Teutons' lust of world power had laid upon their none too enthusiastic Allies. On the other hand, if he complied with the military officer's behest, he might be "hauled over the coals" by his own superiors.

"Due west," repeated the Moke sternly.

The coxswain looked up into Sylvester's face. His flabby features turned a ghastly greyish hue, his beady eyes were almost starting from his head. Drops of perspiration on his bulging forehead glistened in the starlight; his teeth were chattering audibly.

"Pardon, Herr Major," he stammered; then like a weak-willed individual under mesmeric influence he put the helm hard over.

Travelling at high speed the patrol boat heeled violently to starboard, so much so that the Moke was within an ace of being shot out of the cockpit, while the bowman, his curiosity aroused by the unwonted change of direction, thrust head and shoulders out of the oval-shaped hatchway in the fore-deck.

"See to that chap, Slogger!" shouted the Moke, all need for silence being past.

Pistol in hand the sub leapt from the cockpit, making his way along the narrow waterway by the wall of the motor-room coaming, and levelled his weapon full at the bowman's head.

"Rechts Sie unter!" ordered Farrar in his execrable German.

Whether the Austrian seaman understood the words or not, the sub's gesture was sufficient. Taken completely at a disadvantage the broad-shouldered sailor withdrew his head and shoulders and disappeared from view.

In a trice the sub shut and secured the metal lid of the aperture. He guessed that the boat was built with water-tight transverse bulkheads, and in that case there was no direct communication between the fore-cabin and the motor-room.

The mechanician remained to be dealt with. Had not it been for the fact that the bowman began to shout and hammer at the steel partition the former would have "carried on" in blissful ignorance of the change of masters; but hearing the clamour he began to climb through the narrow opening which gave access to the open air.

The sub, on his way aft, turned just in time to see a powerfully built man grasping a heavy spanner. Promptly he levelled his pistol, but the fellow showed no sign of temerity. He was all but clear of the hatchway when Farrar, hesitating to shoot a man labouring under a great disadvantage, struck him fairly between his eyes. Like a felled ox the Austrian tumbled inertly upon the deck, with his legs dangling down the motor-room hatchway.

"Beastly inconsiderate of him," exclaimed the sub, addressing his chum. "He's chucked his hand in, so I suppose I must take on his job. Push Little Willie into the cabin and come and bear a hand. The boat will take care of herself for a brace of shakes."

The coxswain suffered himself to be precipitated unceremoniously down the three metal-edged steps of the companion-ladder, and under lock and key in the cabin he was left to puzzle his addled brains over the obvious disadvantage of German domination, for he had not yet "tumbled to" the true cause of the fracas. Consoling himself that the onus of the affair rested upon the shoulders of the military authorities for having ordered him to embark the truculent and domineering Prussians, he decided upon the policy of passive resistance.

With Sylvester's assistance Farrar contrived to lower the senseless motor-engineer down the hatchway into the fore-peak, the bowman making no attempt either to break out or to help his comrade. Under the mistaken impression that the latter had been murdered, he cowered in the farthermost corner of the recess formed by the boat's flaring bows, nor did he stir till long after the hatch had been replaced and secured.

"Now you had better take over, Slogger," suggested the Moke, as the chums returned to the cockpit. "I'm no hand at this game," and he indicated the unattended steering-wheel.

The sub glanced at the compass bowl, and then steadied the boat on her course.

"Sorry," he replied. "I'll have to be popping below to the engines. Didn't bargain for that, but one must take things as they come. I'll put you through a lightning course of helmsmanship. She's right now—with the lubber's line immediately on the point west.... Now she's off it; so turn the wheel to starboard.... There, she's back again."

"Horrible strain watching the compass," complained the Moke.

Farrar took the wheel out of his companion's hands.

"Now," he continued, "she's on her course, You'll notice her head's pointing to a certain star. Keep her on that for a few minutes at a time and occasionally check the direction of the compass. A few quarter-points out won't make much difference, but remember that star has a movement of its own. That's right; you're getting the hang of it. I'll nip below and see how things are going. Whistle if you want me; this voice-tube communicates with the motor-room."

For the best part of two hours nothing unusual occurred. The motor-boat was not doing her best, but considering that the sub had to deal with a strange engine, it was not to be wondered at. Farrar estimated her speed at twenty knots, a rate that if maintained ought to bring the fugitives within sight of the Italian coast shortly after daylight.

Presently Sylvester chanced to glance astern. As he did so he caught sight of a white light blinking rapidly.

"Say, Slogger, old man!" he shouted to his chum in the motor-room. "Come on deck, will you?"

The sub rejoined the amateur helmsman with the utmost promptitude.

"Look!" continued the latter, pointing astern.

"Dash it all, Moke!" exclaimed the sub. "We're in for something. If I'm not very much mistaken, we are being chased by an Austrian destroyer."

CHAPTER XXXII

TOUCH AND GO

SEIZING the steering-wheel Farrar flung the boat hard to port, in the hope that he might shake off pursuit by running at right angles to his former course. By so doing he was taking her farther from Venice, but in this matter he had little option. Had he ported helm the change of direction would have brought the patrol boat athwart the course of the destroyer.

"Take her," he exclaimed hurriedly, and hied him to the motor-room, letting the engines "all out" with full throttle.

When he returned on deck the hostile craft had also altered helm. She was gaining steadily. Columns of flame-tinged smoke poured from her four funnels, while her outlines were faintly discernible against the starlit sea as she came bows on to the fugitives.

Again she signalled, throwing out a code message.

"She doesn't like to open fire," declared the sub. "She's puzzled. Thinks we might be one of her patrol boats. We are, as far as the craft's concerned. Ah, I thought so: a warning shot."

A spurt of flame leapt from the destroyer's fo'c'sle, and, almost as soon as the sharp report, a 12-centimetre shell struck the water a cable's length away from the patrol boat's starboard quarter.

"A miss is as good as a mile," observed Sylvester. Nevertheless he ducked beneath the coaming, as if the thin teak plank was a sufficient protection from a powerful shell.

"It was intended as a miss," rejoined Farrar. "She'll get nearer than that, I fancy. Moke, old man, it's 'No Surrender.'"

"No Surrender," repeated Sylvester firmly. He had had quite enough of prison life in an enemy country to wish not to repeat the experience. Then, "How about those chaps?" he inquired, indicating the fore-peak, from which frantic shouts punctuated by loud beats upon the hatchway floated aft.

The sub pondered for a moment only.

"I'll give them the option of jumping overboard or hanging on here," he decided. "There are lifebelts... the destroyer will, I take it, stop and pick up some of her own crowd. Of course it's a toss-up."

Pistol in hand the sub crept for'ard. For a minute or so, during which interval another shell burst astern of the boat, he exchanged words with the two men. Then he unbolted the hatch and came aft.

Presently the bowman and the motor-artificer (who had quite recovered consciousness) crawled through the hatchway, dragging lifebelts after them; While they were donning the life-saving gear a third shell pitched so close to the bows that the boat drove through the descending column of spray.

A similar proposition to the coxswain was rejected. Nothing would induce the little man to emerge from the cabin, where he was lying at full length upon the floor.

"We'll leave the door unlocked," declared the sub. "He's not likely to give trouble, and we can't be accused of leaving a prisoner to drown in a boxed-in cabin—like the Huns have an unpleasant habit of doing. Hullo what's that?"

The two men for'ard were shouting an pointing aft. In spite of the roar of the engine, Farrar understood. They were afraid of being caught in the suction of the rapidly revolving propellers.

"Quite a reasonable fear," muttered the sub. "I've felt the same sort of thing myself; but I'm sorry I can't stop to let them dive in gracefully. I'll slow down a bit, although it's jolly risky for us."

By means of the reverse gear lever in the cockpit—a supplementary device to enable the motor to be regulated in the event of the mechanism being incapacitated—Farrar threw the propeller' shafts out of clutch. The boat began to lose way appreciably.

"Beeilen Sie sich!" shouted the sub.

The two Austrians required no second bidding. Both leapt feet foremost into the water, striking out with the utmost vigour, as if afraid that their late captors would restart the propellers and "do them in."

The patrol boat quickly worked up to her previous speed, but the pursuing craft had decreased the intervening distance to about a mile. Already the first gleam of dawn was stealing across the eastern sky, silhouetting the dark outlines of the destroyer against the grey blend of sea and air in the distant horizon.

"Good business!" exclaimed Farrar. "She's reversing engines to pick those fellows up."

The Austrian skipper was no novice at the job, nor was he a man to waste time in stopping to pick two seamen out of the water when there were greater issues at stake, Merely stopping the engines he steered the still swiftly moving craft close to the swimmers; bowlines were thrown them, and in a very brief space of time they were both hauled on board.

Yet during this manoeuvre the destroyer lost more than the patrol boat had done when Farrar humanely declutched the propellers. The distance between pursuer and pursued had increased to nearly two miles.

All hope of shaking off the destroyer in the darkness was now at an end. North, south, east, and west the sky line was unbroken save by the grim outlines of the enemy craft. Every minute it was growing lighter, thus decreasing the slight advantage held by the patrol boat. It might be on this account that the larger craft was withholding her fire, for her guns were now silent; or, perhaps, the men rescued from the sea had informed the captain of the destroyer that there was another compatriot on the mysteriously captured boat.

The upper disc of the sun appeared above the horizon, a blood-red arc of fire. Farrar found himself wondering whether he was about to look upon the orb of day for the last time, yet, in spite of his resolution to fight to a finish, he mechanically put on a lifebelt which his companion had handed him.

A clanking sound from the motor-room, audible above the purr of the machinery and the throb of the pistons, roused the sub to a state of activity.

"Knocking badly!" he exclaimed. "Half a minute, Moke; I'll see what's to be done."

Even as he moved towards the hatchway there came an ear-splitting crash. The bows of the boat rose high out of the water, and subsided heavily in a smother of smoke and foam. A cloud of steam issuing from the motor-room indicated that an inrush of sea water had come in contact with the hot cylinders. The ignition failed, and the propellers ceased to revolve.

Then, with a sickening, shuddering movement the stricken craft heeled over on her side, with her bows level with the water. Momentarily recovering from her list, she slid beneath the surface, leaving the two chums floundering in a maelstrom of oil and foam.

"That's done it!" ejaculated the sub, addressing the well-nigh breathless Moke, who was choking and coughing from the effects of swallowing a mouthful of particularly greasy fluid. "What's that you're hanging on to?"

"Only the p-p-portmanteau," spluttered Sylvester. "It won't s-s-sink, dash it!"

The sub swam to his chum's side.

"We'll open it. The thing's watertight as it is," he said. "Won't do to let that fall into the hands of the enemy."

Even as he fumbled with the sliding locks a terrific roar rent the air. Where the destroyer had been but a brief instant before there was nothing but a cloud of smoke and a shower of flying debris, while, at an altitude of about five hundred feet and rocking violently in the agitated air, was a large flying-boat.

"Hang on to the bag, Moke," exclaimed Farrar. "'We needn't scuttle it now. Hullo, here's Little Willie."

The last remark referred to the coxswain of the patrol boat. More fortunate than his former messmates he was floating upon the surface at a distance of less than twenty yards from the sub and his companion. Not only had he lashed a lifebelt round his waist but others encircled each leg. A fourth he grasped with his left hand, while his right arm was waving frantically to attract the attention of the aircraft that had strafed a vessel flying the ensign under which he served.

"Wonder if it's the 'Avenger'?" soliloquised the sub. "Shouldn't be surprised, but they are all so beautifully alike. Can't tell t'other from which."

He was not long left in doubt. The flyingboat circled above the scene of her latest success; then spotting the immersed men, she shut off her motors and glided gracefully downwards, alighting with a healthy splash at a distance of nearly half a mile from the sub and his companions.

Then the motors throbbed again, and under the action of her hydrostatic propeller the flying-boat glided on the surface towards the spot where the patrol craft had foundered.

"By Jove!" ejaculated the sub. "We're in luck's way. It is the 'Avenger,' and there's old Barcroft, bless his chirpy figurehead!"

"Who's Barcroft?" inquired the Moke.

"Pal of mine, and a thundering good sort," replied Farrar. "Don't let that portmanteau go now."

"I don't mean to," declared Sylvester grimly. The "Avenger" eased down. Maintaining a precarious hold on her flaring sides a bluejacket "stood by" with a coil of rope.

"A bloomin' crowd of Fritzes, sir," he reported. "One of them an officer. Rummy sort o' goings on, that destroyer sinking some of her own side."

The Austrian coxswain was the first to be rescued, his array of lifebelts causing unrestrained hilarity amongst the British crew of the flying-boat. The Moke, still hanging on to Baron Eitel von Stopelfeld's property, was the next to be hauled on board, Farrar following, attired only in a coarse blue-grey shirt and soldier's ill-fitting trousers.

"Come aboard, sir," he announced according to the custom of the Senior Service, as he saluted the astonished flight-lieutenant.

"Farrar, by all that's wonderful!" ejaculated the astonished Billy. "Bless my soul, man, I little thought that I was hauling you out of the ditch. We heard that you had been done in.... Reported missing; believed killed. Come along for'ard; I'll see if I can kit you out in dry rig. And these are chums of yours?"

"Yes," replied the irrepressible sub. "The one hugging that bag is Tony Sylvester, alias Baron Eitel von Stopelfeld, otherwise known as the Moke—highly intelligent animal, I can assure you, for if it hadn't been for him I shouldn't be here. The other—we've dubbed him Little Willie—is a scratch acquaintance. You needn't be afraid of passing remarks about him in his presence, for he wouldn't tumble to it."

Since the flying-boat did not carry a liberal wardrobe Sylvester, on discarding the saturated German officer's uniform, had perforce to be rigged out in a duffel suit, while Farrar was accommodated with a bluejacket's trousers and a great-coat belonging to Kirkwood, Billy's second-in-command, who was on the point of turning in to make up arrears of sleep.

The "Avenger" was temporarily attached to the British squadron acting in concert with the Italian fleet in the Gulf of Venice, and was returning from a twelve-hours' patrol flight when she sighted the Austrian destroyer. So intent was the latter on her pursuit of the seized motor-boat that she failed to notice the "Avenger," the noise of the latter's aerial propellers being out-voiced by the noise of the destroyer's engines. A powerful bomb, dropped with unerring accuracy, did the trick most effectually and so rapidly that the majority of the hostile crew had no idea of what strafed them. Literally blown in two amidships the ill-fated craft had foundered with all hands.

"You'll be home again in three or four days with reasonable luck, Mr. Sylvester," observed Barcroft. "The train service is absolutely rotten, but I suppose it's the stock excuse—'owing to the war.' After three years of captivity I suppose you won't mind three days in a railway carriage."

"It will feel like three centuries," declared the Moke seriously. "The sudden change from being a fugitive in a hostile country to a free man is so bewildering that I know I shall be grousing every minute of the journey. By Jove! If ever I get home I don't think I'll want to go outside England for the rest of my natural life. Wonder what London's like? According to the Boche guards at Ruhleben, half the city is in ruins, 25 per cent. of the population are blown to bits, and the remaining 75 per cent. are either cowering in the Tubes or else have bolted for the country to get away from the Gothas."

Barcroft laughed. There was a confident ring in his merriment.

"London was much the same when I was there last," he observed. "What say you, Farrar? In one or two places it looks as if the L.C.C. workmen have started to pull down some buildings instead of pulling up the roadway. I went on a 'bus from Fulham to the Bank, and never saw a sign of damage. As for the population having cold feet—here, read this, it's a letter from a girl friend of my wife's; sixteen I think's her age."

The flight-lieutenant drew a crumpled envelope from his pocket and handed it to the Moke.

The letter was written in pencil as follows:

"DRAMATIS PERSONAE
GERMAN 'PLANES | LONDON AIR DEFENCE
BOMBS—A BEASTLY ROW | SHRAPNEL
AND THE FAMILY OF RAMSHAW

Time—9.15 p.m. Place—The wine cellar of No. 445, Russeldish Square. Play—"The Tin Kettles of London."

"Act I, Scene I.—Peggy is asleep on the mattress that is kept down here." ("Peggy is her sister, aged nine," explained Barcroft.) "I have a few dozen bottles of champagne in front of me, so if my writing gets a bit wobbly you will know the cause. Golly! They are making a beastly row; I shall go deaf in a minute. A policeman tore along the road just now, ringing his bicycle bell and shouting, 'Take cover,' so we adjourned to our dugout as usual. The housemaid is shaking like a jelly. I hope she won't collapse on top of poor me.

"Act I, Scene II.—Crash.... That's some of our glass gone—that means another piece of shrapnel, hip, pip. In the last raid we had some glass broken in the kitchen skylight, and afterwards I had a gorgeous find—a piece of shell weighing three-quarters of a pound.

"Act II, Scene I.—There's an aeroplane going overhead—a moment of suspense. Bang!... A bomb next door by the sound of it, but I expect it's really a good way away. It's ten o'clock now, so they've been at it for three-quarters of an hour—what an age I'm taking to write this letter, but I stop every minute to listen to the orchestra playing a selection which varies between the big drum (bombs) and the kettle-drums (guns). Please excuse the writing and the pencil, but there are nine of us squashed into about eight square feet, with hardly any ventilation. Do you think that the motor of your laid-up car would drive an air-fan? Because, if so, you might send it to us and I could rig it up before to-morrow night, as we have been down here at least once every night this week, and I expect we shall continue to do so until the end of this moon.

"Act II, Scene II.—There's another aeroplane. They always seem to spend ages going over this house.

"10.15.—We're been down here an hour and Fritz's still going strong, like Johnny Walker. There's a motor-ambulance going past.

"10.20.—A lull in the operations.

"10.35.—Just been out to look for shrapnel, but could not find any. Molly" ("the second sister," explained Barcroft) "is still out there; so are most of the neighbours, in airy evening dress. The 'All Clear' signal has not been given, but there's no more firing.

"10.45.—'All Clear' just sounded, and I'm off to bed, so good-night.

"DIANA."

"P.S.—A policeman has just come to say, that they have been driven off, but they may come back again, so the 'All Clear' signal has been cancelled.

"Sunday morning.—The 'All Clear' signal was not given last night till 1 o'clock.

"DIANA."

"Well?" inquired Billy, as the Moke handed back the letter. "What do you think of that? Not bad for a sixteen year old, eh?"

"A girl to be proud of, Barcroft," replied Sylvester. "British to the core. By Jove! I can see a German fräulein writing a letter like that and under similar conditions—I don't think."

"And," added Barcroft, "it shows the true drift of public opinion. Thanks to the absurd restrictions of a rotten censorship all sorts of vague and inaccurate rumours float around. You cannot muzzle millions of people, you know. Consequently it is the froth that floats on the surface—the vapourings of irresponsible individuals of excitable temperament. That which matters most—evidences of the calmness and steadfastness of the bulk of the population in the danger areas—is only occasionally revealed by such means as this. Yes, Diana is a topping example of British grit and courage."

"Any stunts lately?" asked Farrar.

Barcroft shook his head.

"Not counting the destroyer we've just done in, we haven't had a decent strafe for nearly a week. I can't imagine where Fritz hangs his hat and coat up about here. There are dozens of U-boats in the Mediterranean. It is certain that they put into the Adriatic for repairs and replenishing stores, but where, goodness only knows. We've tried Trieste, Pola, and Fiume, and drawn blank. I'd like to meet some one who could give me the tip."

"You have," remarked the sub quietly.

"Who—where?" demanded the flight-lieutenant.

"This child," replied Farrar, nudging his own ribs. "I'd recognise the place at once. It's somewhere behind the islands off the Dalmatian coast."

"By the Lord Harry!" ejaculated Billy Barcroft explosively. "We'll land Sylvester and Little Willie, fill up with bombs and petrol, and you'll pilot me to the U-boat base. Farrar, my bird, we'll have a glorious stunt and the most gorgeous strafe on record. Game?"

"Rather," replied the sub enthusiastically.

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE GREAT STRAFE

BILLY BARCROFT would have been disagreeably surprised had the R.N.V.R. sub given him an answer in the negative. He was perfectly aware that Nigel Farrar was rightfully entitled to be sent home on leave, following his escape from an enemy country. Yet, with characteristic impetuosity and zeal, Farrar had jumped at the offer to guide the "Avenger" to the secret U-boat base, and incidentally "get his own back."

In less than twenty minutes the flying-boat returned to her base. Barcroft made his report and obtained the squadron-commander's ready permission to attempt another stunt. Sylvester, rigged out in new civilian clothing and taking the baron's uniform with him as a souvenir, lost no time in catching the first train to Milan, where, with luck, he might join the through express to Paris—and home.

"You'll look me up directly you arrive home on leave, old man?" he asked, when Farrar bade him farewell and a speedy journey, knowing perfectly well that the latter wish was almost as hopeless as asking for the moon.

"I'll certainly look you up before I rejoin my ship," replied the sub evasively.

The Moke regarded his chum curiously.

"Wonder what the move is?" he asked himself. "Farrar's people aren't in England. He has no relatives there as far as I am aware of. I wonder—ah! the sly dog!"

As soon as the flying-boat had replenished her petrol tanks, taken on board a stock of bombs and trays of ammunition, the flight began. Barcroft was anxious to carry out the stunt in broad daylight. With reasonable luck he hoped to be back again by sunset.

The "Avenger" was not alone. Following in V-shaped formation were four of her sister craft, their load of bombs aggregating a little more than a ton. They flew high—between 8,000 and 10,000 feet—with very little noise: the motors were effectively silenced, and only the purr of the pistons and the whirr of the huge propellers disturbed the stillness of the rarefied atmosphere.

High over the Istrian coast they flew, keeping above, but just inside, the chain of islands that had proved more than once the salvation of a hard-pressed hostile vessel.

Presently Farrar pointed to a ridge of mountains slightly on the "Avenger's" port bow.

"That's the show," he declared. "I recognise it by the conical peaks."

"Sure?" asked Barcroft dubiously. "I've flown all along the coast and across those hills, but not a trace of a U-boat base did I twig—and I was mighty particular. Searched every inlet with my binoculars. Not a sign of a wharf, workshop, or anything of that nature."

"I'll eat my hat if I'm wrong," said the sub confidently, as he reached for a pair of powerful glasses. "There you are! See those patches of green in the water?"

"Yes," admitted Barcroft. "They were there last time. Reeds on the mudbanks."

"Camouflage," corrected Farrar. "The whole show is covered with boughs and branches to escape aerial observation. Each of those patches screens a Fritz."

"Does it, by Jove!" ejaculated the flight-lieutenant. He swung round and nodded significantly to his second-in-command. Not a word was exchanged between Barcroft and Kirkwood. Old hands at the strafing business each seemed to know instinctively the other's mind.

A slight depression of the horizontal rudders, a faint click as the ignition was switched off, and the "Avenger" commenced her two-mile glide, descending to two thousand feet, her consorts following her example.

Fascinated, Farrar leant over the side of the hull. This sort of warfare was new to him. It seemed a very one-sided business, for not a shot was fired from the enemy base. Optically there was little to be noted—merely a forked arm of the sea with an island lying almost athwart the entrance, a range of hills enclosing the water, and a number of what appeared to be patches of verdure on the surface of the harbour and also on the sloping ground on the east side.

Suddenly the motor fired again. The flyingboat, quivering under the powerful pulsations, changed her volplane to a horizontal movement, Simultaneously Kirkwood released the first bomb.

For several hundred feet Farrar could follow its descent, until it became a mere speck against the dark green background. Then another, and yet another missile started in its devastating career.

A cloud of smoke, dwarfed to the size of a mushroom, announced that the first bomb had got home fairly in the centre of the seaward tier of moored U-boats. Like the rending of a veil the camouflage vanished, revealing to sight seven of the modern pirates and an ominous gap in the centre.

There was plenty of activity now. Men looking like ants swarmed everywhere, emerging from the interiors of the Unterseebooten and making for the doubtful shelter of dry land. Others, hesitatingly, began to cast off bow and stern ropes, with the evident intention of taking the trapped submarines into deep water and there submerging until the danger was past.

The rapid shower of bombs completely frustrated their attempt. Long, cigar-shaped hulls were shattered asunder, the floating pontoons smashed to matchwood, as the five flying-boats manoeuvred to keep above their much-desired objective.

Once during the strafing operations Farrar glanced at the "Avenger's" skipper. Barcroft, his set features absolutely unperturbed, was steering the flying-boat as coolly as if he had the whole atmosphere to himself, notwithstanding that four other swiftly moving aircraft were describing apparently erratic circles and curves at a reduced rate of about fifty miles an hour within a radius of half a mile. It was an aerial gymkana, in which the merest collision would inevitably result in a tremendous crash, yet the strafing continued systematically and continuously.

A few bombs struck the surface of the water, but direct hits were numerous and devastating. Of the twenty-four submarines only three remained afloat. Some might have been submerged by design on the part of their crews. Even then they stood a poor chance against the enormous concussion of the powerful missiles. Even a buffer of twenty feet of water was unable to save the steel hulls from being shattered.

Ashore three distinct fires had been started, two in the sand-bagged and camouflaged workshops, the third in a large liquid-fuel store, from which the flames were mounting a couple of hundred feet in the air. Crowds of German and Austrian soldiers, sailors and workpeople, driven from their futile shelters, were running in all directions, and still the bombs dropped remorselessly and destructively.

A passive spectator Farrar felt not the slightest qualms. A woodman destroying a nest of young adders could not have shown less compunction. The cold-blooded murderous record of the U-boats had put them without the pale. Stamped with the brand of Cain, every man's hand was against them, Allies and neutrals alike, for the modern pirates, compared with whom Morgan, Lolonois, and Gramont were gentlemen, had roused the indignation and horror of the civilised world.

"No eggs left!" reported Kirkwood laconically.

Barcroft nodded. The other flying-boats had also exhausted their stocks of bombs, but their task was not yet done. Photographs showing the damage done had to be taken, from which enlargements were to be subsequently made in order to confirm the observer's reports.

Although the members of the Royal Air Force are the least given to exaggeration, there have been instances in which observers have unintentionally overrated the damage done by their bombs. Objects seen through dust and smoke are apt to appear different from what they actually are, while in the tension and excitement of a raid a casual glance might convey an erroneous impression on the mind, upon which inaccurate reports are based. But the camera, emotionless and strictly impartial, records the scene with absolute fidelity; hence the importance of photography as a necessary adjunct to the airman's panoply of war.

Suddenly a cloud of white smoke mushroomed a few hundred feet below the "Avenger." Another leapt seemingly from nothingness at an unpleasantly short distance on her quarter. The anti-aircraft guns were getting into action at last, and the strafe no longer promised to be a one-sided business.

Soon the "air was stiff" with flying shrapnel, while shells of a hitherto unknown type added to the flying-boats' peril. These missiles, on bursting, liberated long tentacles of the lightness of silk that floated in strings of fire in the air.

A burst of shrapnel, seemingly close under the "Avenger's" nose, caused the flying-boat to pitch and roll like a tramp in ballast in a heavy seaway. Before Barcroft could get her under control the uppermost of the triplanes was foul of one of the burning tentacles.

The bight of the flaming tendril engaged against the forward knife-edge of the plane, while the ends, swept backwards by the rush of the flying-boat through the air, swung together like a gigantic streamer of flame in the "Avenger's" wake.

No manoeuvre could possibly extricate the flying-boat from the fiery embrace. A tail-spin, instead of enabling the plane to back away from the tentacle, would result in the streaming ends winding themselves round the spread of canvas; while in addition the falling aircraft would lose all advantage of altitude ere she recovered from the "spin."

Although the fabric of the planes was supposed to be of fire-resisting material the prepared canvas was already smoking and charring. Like a flash Farrar realised the danger. The time had come for him to act, and with characteristic alacrity he seized upon the chance.

Swarming aloft, with a knife between his teeth, he gained the upper plane. The windage was terrific, smoke and embers were swept into his face, the heat scorched his hair. Hanging on like grim death with one hand he slashed at the fiercely-burning tow, through the centre of which a fine flexible wire maintained cohesion of the deadly firebrand. Hacking fiercely at the wire, regardless of the flames that ate into his hand, his efforts were rewarded by the sight of the severed tentacle disappearing like a streak of lightning in the wake of the swiftly moving planes.

Then, and only then, did the burning pain assert itself. All power to move seemed to have vanished from his arm. Muscles and sinews were completely numbed, while the tightly contracted flesh throbbed and plunged with the excruciating torture of the livid burns.

"I'm in the cart this time," he muttered, wincing with the agony of the fire. "Hanged if I can climb back again, and the plane's still smouldering."

Vainly he endeavoured to smother the charring fabric. His right arm was as helpless as that of a new-born babe. Stealthily, yet steadily, the patch of calcined canvas was increasing. At any moment, fanned by the terrific draught, it might burst into flames.

Then he became aware of some one lying flat beside him: of Kirkwood drenching the burning plane with a fire-extinguishing chemical, of the spray of the liquid blowing back into his face.

"That's settled it, by Jove!" shouted Kirkwood in the sub's ear. "Nip on down. Can't? Here, let me give you a hand."

As in a dream the injured officer found himself assisted to the hull of the flying-boat. She had left the bursts of shrapnel far astern and was heading homewards. Her consorts were also returning—all four.

"Good man!" exclaimed Barcroft admiringly, as Farrar gained the deck. "What, hit?"

The sub shook his head. Everything was growing very dim and misty.

"Not at all!" he replied, his voice sounding strange and distant. "Not at all. A great strafe, wasn't it?"

"Mind his hand, Billy," exclaimed some one warningly—also dim and distant seemed his voice. "It's pretty bad."

Barcroft was only just in time to save the injured sub from dropping inertly at his feet as merciful oblivion overtook him.

CHAPTER XXXIV

AND LAST

"CHEER-O, Slogger!"

"Cheer-o, Moke!"

These, the curt but nevertheless brimful of meaning exchange of greetings when, four weeks later, Farrar and Sylvester met at Southampton Docks.

The sub's right hand was still swathed in surgical dressings, otherwise in appearance he was much the same as of yore, except that on the breast of his uniform coat he wore the ribbon of the Distinguished Service Order and the Distinguished Service Cross, for the young R.N.V.R. officer had pulled off a double event. The former distinction had been awarded for his services in strafing Fritz, the latter for conspicuous gallantry in extinguishing the flames that threatened to destroy the "Avenger" in mid-air.

"Congrats, old bird!" said the Moke heartily. "I saw the announcement in The Gazette. Now, how about it? You're coming back to Lynbury with me, I absolutely insist, and my people are expecting you. That's why I broke my journey from Waterloo."

Ten minutes previously Farrar would have firmly declined the invitation, but in his pocket reposed a recently opened telegram which read:

"Welcome home; we are returning to The Old Croft on Monday, when we shall be delighted to see you. Bruno awaits you. Winifred."

And the day was Friday. Three whole days, and then——

"Right-o," he replied to his chum's pressing invitation. "I'm on it, but I'll have to leave by the first train on Monday."

"What for?" demanded the astonished Sylvester. "Come, come, Slogger, why these unusual blushes that suffuse your cherubic visage? Do I tumble to it? Miss Greenwood? More congrats, you sly dog!"

"Yes," replied Farrar. "And I am the luckiest fellow in the whole wide world. Hullo, here's another old pal! Forgot to mention it before."

He indicated a young officer, upon whose sleeve two rings and a curl denoted that he was of the rank of lieutenant. He was limping slightly as he gripped the rail of the gangway with one hand and leant heavily upon a stick.

The Moke looked at the lieutenant, and then at the sub.

"Hanged if I can fix him," he remarked dubiously. "No, surely not?"

"Yes, it's Holcombe," declared Farrar. "Holcombe, my festive, you remember the Moke?"

"Good old Lynbury times," exclaimed Holcombe, grasping Sylvester's outstretched hand. "Of course I do. But, my word, Moke, you've altered some! Had a rotten time in Germany, I understand from Slogger; and a pretty exciting time the pair of you had in breaking out. What are you doing now?"

"Oh, just run down to have a pow-pow with Slogger," replied Sylvester. "You're coming along with us too, Holcombe. The more the merrier, if you don't mind nut-butter and a concoction of sawdust and Epsom Salts which we are beguiled into eating under the name of war-bread."

"Holcombe means, what are you doing to earn your rations, Moke?" interposed Farrar.

"They've pushed me into the Foreign Office," explained Sylvester. "Suppose they imagined that my experience in Germany might be of service. You see, I know a good deal of the internal conditions before war broke out."

"Just the sort of chap to do some good," replied Holcombe. "You'll be in the Corps Diplomatique yet—the Diplomatic Corpse as our old friend the Lynbury guard remarked on one occasion. Wonder if he's still in charge of the Lynbury and Marshton express?"

"Don't know, I'm sure," said the Moke. "But we'll soon find out."

"By the bye," remarked Holcombe, "have you heard anything about von Gobendorff?"

"Shot in the Tower," replied Farrar laconically. "Thank goodness I wasn't knocking around to be called to give evidence at the court martial."

"You may be in a similar stunt, old boy," rejoined Holcombe. "One of our light cruisers disabled a brand-new U-boat last Monday. They managed to save about a dozen of the crew before she sank. Amongst them was her skipper—guess who?"

"Not von Loringhoven?"

"Right first shot," exclaimed Holcombe. "It was von Loringhoven, and he had the wind up properly. I don't think that he'll get away in a hurry this time."

When at length the three churns changed trains at Marshton Junction they found their old favourite of school days still on duty.

"Know you, Mr. Sylvester? Of course I do. And you are one of the Corpse, I hear?"

"Not yet, guard," said the Moke hurriedly. "Still, getting on that way. Do you recognise these gentlemen?"

"Bless my soul, sir, it's Mr. Holcombe and Mr. Farrar! You a captain yet, sir?"

"Like my friend Sylvester I'm getting on that way," explained Holcombe. "And here's our modest hero coming down to Lynbury with two little bits of ribbon, you see."

"What be they for, sir?" asked the veteran guard.

"Oh—er—just for doing something in the way of strafing Fritz," replied Nigel Farrar.

THE END

Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.

Transcriber's Notes:

This book contains a number of misprints.
The following misprints have been corrected:

This book contains a number of misprints.
The following misprints have been corrected:

[and it's a deal," re-rejoined] →

[and it's a deal," rejoined]

[The "Tantalus" was slowy foundering.] →

[The "Tantalus" was slowly foundering.]

[{Illustration: "SEIZING FARRER BEGAN TO HAUL] →

[{Illustration: "SEIZING FARRAR, BEGAN TO HAUL]

[whether there were any news] →

[whether there was any news]

["Afir-el Bahr" had been] →

["Afir-el-Bahr" had been]

[the danger done by their bombs.] →

[the damage done by their bombs.]

Not corrected, but interesting to mention, is another misprint on the spine:

the spine shows the title: [THE FRITZ STRAFFERS]
but of course that should be: [THE FRITZ STRAFERS]

A few cases of punctuation errors were corrected but are not mentioned here.

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Table of Contents

THE FRITZ STRAFERS
THE FRITZ STRAFERS
A STORY OF THE GREAT WAR
PERCY F. WESTERMAN
CONTENTS

THE FRITZ STRAFERS

- CHAPTER I

- "COMING EVENTS..."

- CHAPTER II

- THE DANGER SIGNAL

- CHAPTER III

- THE OBER-LEUTNANT'S JAUNT

- CHAPTER IV

- FOILED

- CHAPTER V

- THE PURSUIT

- CHAPTER VI

- VON LORINGHOVEN LEARNS NEWS

- CHAPTER VII

- BRUNO'S ESCAPADE

- CHAPTER VIII

- TORPEDOED

- CHAPTER IX

- THE SKIPPER OF THE "GUIDING STAR"

- CHAPTER X

- THE BLIMP TO THE RESCUE

- CHAPTER XI

- THE STRAFING OF U 254

- CHAPTER XII

- PRISONERS OF WAR

- CHAPTER XIII

- THE END OF THE "TANTALUS"

- CHAPTER XIV

- A CHANCE SHOT

- CHAPTER XV

- LAID BY THE HEELS

- CHAPTER XVI

- THE STRUGGLE IN THE LONELY COTTAGE

- CHAPTER XVII

- THE BURNING MUNITION SHIP

- CHAPTER XVIII

- THE FUGITIVE

- CHAPTER XIX

- BILLY'S FLYING-BOAT

- CHAPTER XX

- RAMMED

- CHAPTER XXI

- THE LAST VOYAGE OF S.S. "ANDROMEDA"

- CHAPTER XXII

- FARRAR'S FIRST BAG

- CHAPTER XXIII

- THE STORM

- CHAPTER XXIV

- THE SINKING TRANSPORT

- CHAPTER XXV

- HOLCOMBE'S SURPRISE

- CHAPTER XXVI

- A FIGHT TO A FINISH

- CHAPTER XXVII

- IN THE HANDS OF THE HUNS

- CHAPTER XXVIII

- "A SECOND KOPENICK HOAX"

- CHAPTER XXIX

- A SURPRISE

- CHAPTER XXX

- COMRADES IN A STRANGE LAND

- CHAPTER XXXI

- A DASH FOR FREEDOM

- CHAPTER XXXII

- TOUCH AND GO

- CHAPTER XXXIII

- THE GREAT STRAFE

- CHAPTER XXXIV

- AND LAST

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