The Submarine Hunters: A Story of the Naval Patrol Work in the Great War

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Title: The Submarine Hunters

       A Story of the Naval Patrol Work in the Great War

Author: Percy F. Westerman

Illustrator: E. S. Hodgson

Release Date: March 17, 2013 [EBook #26641]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

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Cover art

THE BLACK CROSS FLAG WAS HAULED DOWN,

  AND REHOISTED UNDER THE WHITE ENSIGN"

The Submarine Hunters

  A Story of Naval Patrol

  Work in the Great War

BY

PERCY F. WESTERMAN

  Author of

  "Rounding Up the Raider"

  "The Dispatch-Riders"

  "The Fight for Constantinople"

  &c. &c.

_Illustrated by E. S. Hodgson_

BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED

LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY

1918

Contents

CHAP.

      I.  THE MYSTERIOUS MEETING ON ST. MENA'S ISLAND

     II.  THE TABLES TURNED

    III.  KIDNAPPED

     IV.  THE AWAKENING

      V.  ABOARD U75

     VI.  THE TRAMP

    VII.  ON THE BED OF THE SEA

   VIII.  BALKED BY A SEA-PLANE

     IX.  THE LANDING AT PORT TREHERNE

      X.  A TREACHEROUS PLOT

     XI.  PREPARATIONS

    XII.  THE WHITE FLAG--AND AFTERWARDS

   XIII.  THE ARM OF THE LAW

    XIV.  A FRUITLESS QUEST

     XV.  THE ADMIRAL WORKS THE ORACLE

    XVI.  H.M.S. "CAPELLA"

   XVII.  A DOUBLE BAG

  XVIII.  THE SMOKE-SIGNALS

    XIX.  THAT FRIDAY NIGHT

     XX.  TO THE RESCUE

    XXI.  ADRIFT IN THE CHANNEL

   XXII.  AN UNEXPECTED CAPTURE

  XXIII.  MINED

   XXIV.  "SHRAP"

    XXV.  OFF THE BELGIAN COAST

   XXVI.  DISABLED IN MID-AIR

  XXVII.  NOT ON PAROLE

 XXVIII.  ALMOST RECAPTURED

   XXIX.  BOUND FOR THE BALTIC

    XXX.  THE AFFAIR OFF KIEL

THE SUBMARINE HUNTERS

CHAPTER I

The Mysterious Meeting on St. Mena's Island

"We've made a proper mess of things this time!" ejaculated Ross

Trefusis--"or rather I have."

"It can't be helped," rejoined his chum, Vernon Haye.  "We've done our

level best to get her off.  How long is it before the tide floats her?"

"A matter of seven or eight hours, worse luck.  You see, it was only

half ebb when we landed."

Ross bent down to remove a streak of bluish-grey mud from his ankle.

"I wish we'd taken the rowing-boat instead of this heavy old tub," he

continued.  "We'll be pretty peckish before we get back to the Hall,

and dinner's at seven-thirty."

Vernon laughed.

"It wouldn't be the first time I've had to go without grub," he

remarked.  "If you don't mind, I don't."

"Then it's no use standing here," said Ross.  "Let's get on our shoes

and go for a stroll."

Vernon Haye was a broad-shouldered lad of fifteen, with clear-cut

features and dark hair.  His companion was of about the same age, but a

good two inches taller.  His complexion was florid, his hair of an

auburn tint that narrowly escaped coming within the category of red or

ginger.  His features were full and rounded.  In short, he was a

typical Cornish youth.

Ross's father, Admiral Paul Trefusis, lived at Killigwent Hall, a

large, rambling, sixteenth-century house, standing within a mile of the

sea on the North Cornish coast.

Both lads went to the same public school, but owing to the fact that

Vernon's father, Captain Haye, was on active service with the Grand

Fleet, young Haye was spending the summer holidays with his chum at

Killigwent Hall.

That afternoon the lads had taken a small sailing-boat and had made for

St. Mena's Island, a small rocky piece of land lying about a mile off

shore, and nearly five miles from Killigwent Cove.  The island was

roughly three-quarters of a mile in length, and four hundred yards wide

in the broadest part.  The north and west sides were precipitous, but

on the side nearest to the mainland the ground sloped gradually, and

was indented by several narrow tidal coves.

The glamour of romance lay thickly around that rocky pile.  Centuries

ago it was the abode of a hermit, who, amongst his various self-imposed

tasks, had built a chapel on the summit, from the tower of which a wood

fire was kindled nightly to warn mariners of the treacherous reefs in

the vicinity of the island.

In course of time, St. Mena's Island became the haunt of wreckers and

smugglers.  The chapel, in spite of its massive construction, fell a

victim to the ravages of wind and weather, but still served as a

convenient shelter for the lawless Cornishmen who profited by the

misfortunes of honest seamen.  Immune from interference, by reason of

the superstitious awe in which the island was held by the country-folk,

the smugglers and wreckers thrived exceedingly until late in the

eighteenth century, when stern measures were taken to suppress their

misdeeds.  From that time St. Mena's Island was deserted, except for

the casual visits of tourists and summer visitors from the neighbouring

towns of Padstow and Newquay, and countless numbers of sea-birds that

take up their abode in crannies in the almost inaccessible cliffs.

Ross Trefusis was right in taking the blame of their misfortunes upon

himself.  He knew better, but, neglecting to take ordinary precautions,

he had allowed the boat to be left high and dry by the falling tide.

Upon returning to the cove the lads had found the heavy craft lying on

its bilge in the stiff bluish clay, with a ridge of jagged rocks

cutting her off from the sea.

"Perhaps," suggested Vernon, "some other boat will put off to the

island, and we can get them to put us ashore."

"Hardly likely," was the reply.  "Anyway, we'll keep a look-out.  Which

would you prefer to do--explore the Smugglers' Cave and Dead Man's

Cave, or climb up to the ruins?"

"The ruins," decided young Haye eagerly.  "I like fooling about old

ruins, and I've already seen the caves.  Besides, we can see if there

are any boats about.  It's almost like being shipwrecked on a desert

island."

"Hard lines if we were," commented Ross.  "Suppose we take an inventory

of our possessions?  Let the see: one pocket-knife, a silver watch that

has refused duty, a notebook and pencil, and five shillings and three

halfpence.  What have you to add to the common stock?"

"A knife, a pocket compass, my watch--which does go; it's now

five-and-twenty to four--and sixteen shillings and eightpence in paper

money and hard coin."

"Not a morsel of grub between the pair of us, then," declared Ross.

"Outlook beastly unpromising.  Faced with starvation unless we make up

our minds to knock over some gulls.  They are horribly fishy to eat, I

believe, and we've nothing to make a fire."

"It makes you pine for the flesh-pots of Kllligwent Hall, old man,"

exclaimed Vernon laughingly.  "Never mind, let's make a move.  I vote

we get rid of these sweaters.  It is frightfully hot."

Stripping off their woollen garments, and placing them for safety under

a gorse bush, the two lads made their way up the steep ascent to the

ruins, till, hot and well-nigh breathless in spite of being "in

training", they reached the summit of the island.

"What a jolly view!" exclaimed Vernon, turning and taking in the

panorama of rocky coast-line, an expanse of jagged, frowning, brownish

cliffs topped by the brilliant green of the Cornish moorland.

"Not bad," agreed Ross complaisantly, for the view was no stranger to

him.  "See that cliff shaped like the head and shoulders of a bearded

man?  That's Hidden Money Cove that I was speaking to you about last

night.  We'll go there next week, all being well.  You see, there's not

a sail in sight, so our chances of getting back to dinner are very

remote.  What's more, unless I'm very much mistaken, there's a

rain-storm coming.  See that dark cloud working up against the wind?"

"Yes," assented Haye.  "What of it?  A little rain won't hurt."

"It's the after effect," said Ross.  "It's quite possible it may blow

hard before night, in which case we're done for.  I've known it

impossible to approach Killigwent Cove for a week at a time."

Vernon whistled.

"Sounds lively," he remarked.

"Of course that is in the winter," his chum hastened to remind him.

"These summer gales don't last very long, but we'll be feeling precious

hungry by the time we get home, I guess."

"Look here," said Vernon after a while.  "I vote we get those sweaters.

We don't want to be soaked."

"Very well," assented Ross.  "But there's no great hurry."

Having retrieved the sweaters, the chums leisurely retraced their way

to the ruins.  For half an hour or more they wandered around the

remains, descending into the dark crypt, and running considerable risk

in climbing to the summit of the tower.  Since the spiral stone steps

had vanished long ago, the only means of getting to the top was by

climbing the gnarled stem of the ivy which grew profusely on the face

of the building.  The tower was roofless, a low, partly demolished

parapet encircling it on three sides, while a couple of weather-worn

oak-beams supporting a few planks formed a kind of platform where the

roof formerly existed.

"Think it's safe?" asked Vernon anxiously, as his chum, having got

astride the parapet, was about to lower himself upon the decrepit

woodwork.

"I've done it scores of times," said Ross confidently.  "That's right,

I'll guide your foot.  Now let go."

"By Jove!" suddenly exclaimed Haye; "there's a fellow coming towards

the ruin.  How on earth did he get here?"

"Goodness only knows," said Trefusis inconsequently.  "He may have

landed in Main Beach Cove.  Anyhow, he's at perfect liberty to do so.

I suppose he's interested in ruins."

"Let's drop a bit of stone and give him a shock when he gets here,"

suggested Vernon.  "We'll apologize afterwards.  Ten to one he'll give

us a passage back."

"I'm not so keen on dropping chunks of stone," objected Ross.  "I vote

we lie low for a bit at any rate, and see what he's up to."

"Why, do you think he's a spy?" asked his companion.  Trefusis grunted

scoffingly.

"Spy?" he repeated.  "What object would a spy have on St. Mena's

Island?  This part of Cornwall is well outside the military area.

There's nothing in the fortification line for miles.  No, it's not

that.  But _cave_, here he comes."

The lads crouched behind the crumbling parapet, and by means of

conveniently placed gaps in the masonry watched the stranger's approach.

There was nothing about the man's appearance to suggest that he was

anything but an ordinary holiday-maker.  He was slightly above average

height, rather heavily built, and inclined to flabbiness.  His

complexion was undoubtedly florid, although his face and hands were

tanned a deep brown.

He was dressed in a light-grey lounge suit, with a straw hat and brown

shoes, while in his right hand he carried a thick Malacca cane.

The exertion of climbing up the hill on which the ruined chapel stood

apparently told upon him, for he was considerably out of breath when he

passed under the ivy-clad arch.  Here he stopped to wipe his face with

a handkerchief, and while doing so dropped his cane.

It fell upon the stones with a dull thud.

At the same time the stranger gave vent to an exclamation that

certainly was not English.

The lads exchanged glances.  Here was the beginning of a mystery.  The

heaviest Malacca cane would not have made that dull metallic sound in

falling, while it was evident by the careful examination the stranger

made of the retrieved article that he was more than considerate for its

appearance.

The man made no attempt to explore the ruins.  The weather-worn fane

had no attractions for him.  It was apparently only a rendezvous, as

far as he was concerned, for at frequent intervals he would walk

stealthily through the archway, and look attentively down the hill

leading to the coves on the side facing the mainland.

It had now begun to rain--big drops that were the precursors of a heavy

shower.  The lads, in their exposed position on the tower, paid scant

heed.  Their interest and attention were centred upon the anxiously

awaiting stranger fifty feet beneath them.

Presently Ross happened to glance towards the stretch of water that

separated St. Mena's Island from the mainland.  A boat was approaching.

Already it was more than half-way across.  It was a rowing-boat,

containing only one person.  What object would anyone have in rowing

across on a wet afternoon like this? wondered the lad.

Just then the stranger began rubbing his hands with ill-concealed

satisfaction.  Although he had been frequently on the look-out, he had

evidently only just caught sight of the approaching boat.

The lads watched the little craft till it was hidden by the intervening

high ground, but already Ross felt certain that it was making for Main

Beach Cove.

There were three landing-places on St. Mena's Island--Half Tide Cove,

where the lads had left their stranded boat; Main Beach Cove, a little

to the north-east; and Deadman's Cove, farther away.  Of these, only

Main Beach was available between one hour on either side of low water.

The fact that the boat was making for it, and had already successfully

skirted the submerged reef lying off it, proved that its occupant had

local knowledge.

Some considerable time elapsed between the temporary disappearance of

the boat and the appearance of the new-comer; but at length he came

into view, walking rapidly up the steep incline without showing

anything of the physical strain that the first stranger had betrayed.

Suddenly Ross Trefusis recognized the man.  He almost felt inclined to

laugh at his suspicions.  It was Dr. Ramblethorne, the medical

practitioner at St. Bedal--a town of considerable importance about

seven miles from Killigwent Hall.  The doctor was a frequent guest of

Admiral Trefusis, and was generally considered a good, all-round

sportsman.  He was about thirty years of age, over six feet in height,

of sinewy frame and of great muscular power.  He was the wildest

motorist in that part of Cornwall, as the endorsements on his driver's

licence testified.  A keen golfer, good shot, and fisherman, he was

also a botanist; and that, perhaps, thought Ross, might account for his

presence on St. Mena's Island, although it was difficult to reconcile

the fact that Ramblethorne had an appointment with a stranger at this

desolate spot.  If a joint botanic expedition had been fixed up, why

had not the two men met on the mainland?

The unknown made no attempt to advance to meet the doctor.  Instead, he

remained within the ruins until Ramblethorne entered.

Their greeting was a surprise even to the lads, for the doctor, holding

out his hand, exclaimed in German:

"Well met, von Ruhle!  Let us hope that your arrangements will prove

satisfactory."

CHAPTER II

The Tables Turned

Both Ross Trefusis and Vernon Haye understood and could speak German.

Ross was especially good in his knowledge of the language of the modern

Hun, for in his early youth he had been inflicted with a German

governess.  Since German is one of the subjects for Sandhurst--for

which both lads were preparing--their knowledge had been considerably

improved under the cast-iron rule of a native professor.

"Eminently satisfactory," replied von Ruhle.  "We will go into details

later.  You had no difficulty in coming here, I hope?"

"None whatever."

"No suspicions?" asked von Ruhle anxiously.

Ramblethorne smiled.

"My dear von Ruhle," he replied.  "A medical practitioner is above

suspicion.  He is free to go anywhere at any hour of the day or night

without question.  No man would suspect----"

"You are clever, von Hauptwald----"

"Ssh!" interrupted the doctor.  "Call me Ramblethorne, if you please.

Of course there is no danger here, but at other times and in other

places you might incautiously give the show away.  You had a good

passage?"

"Excellent," replied von Ruhle.  "I am getting well-known to the

strafed English custom-house officers at Queenboro' and Harwich.  They

recognize me by my stick, I believe, but they little know that it is a

new one every time.  What do you think of this?  I have brought it as a

specimen for you to see.  Just fancy! every time I cross to Holland

twenty kilogrammes of good copper are on their way to the Fatherland.

By this time Herr Stabb of Essen is well acquainted with my Malacca

canes."

"A good weight to carry about," remarked Ramblethorne, wielding the

disguised bar of copper.  "I wonder you troubled."

"Mein Gott!  I could not leave it," declared von Ruhle.  "Someone might

take a fancy to it, and then the secret would be out.  But tell me:

have you succeeded in getting that commission you spoke of?"

"I am still living in hopes," replied Ramblethorne.  "Of course I could

have obtained a post of temporary surgeon in the British Navy, but it

wasn't good enough.  It's no fun running the risk of being torpedoed by

our own Submarines.  The English Army offers a wider scope.  Believe

me, I am worth more than a division to the Emperor.  I'll get a

commission, never you fear, for I have heaps of influence.  Then, of

course, I will do my utmost to fight against a terrible epidemic that

will mysteriously break out amongst the troops."

Ramblethorne, otherwise von Hauptwald, threw back his shoulders and

laughed uproariously.

"Careful!" hissed his companion.  "You will be heard over the whole

island."

"What matters?  There is not another soul in sight besides ourselves.

How much petrol have you?"

"Fifty two-gallon tins.  I expect some more by boat to-morrow.  It's

safely stored in a cave on the side of the creek.  It is a nuisance it

is raining.  I do not fancy a night's work in weather like this.

Himmel, what's that?"

Accidentally Vernon's foot had dislodged a small piece of stone.

"Nerves, my dear von Ruhle," said Ramblethorne, with his usual

good-natured smile.  "A bit of masonry has fallen from the tower.  See,

the floor is covered with similar pieces."

"If anyone should be up there----" suggested von Ruhle, pointing to the

top of the tower.

The lads could feel their hearts thumping against their ribs.  Through

a small crack in the planking they could see the eyes of the two

Germans directed upwards.

"Impossible; there are no steps," declared Ramblethorne.  "Besides,

what object would anyone have in ascending a tower on a day like this?

I fully appreciate the danger of being overheard, of course.  We've

said enough to find ourselves faced by a firing-party in the Tower of

London, my friend."

"Don't!" expostulated von Ruhle, closing his eyes as if to shut out the

unpleasant mental vision.  Then: "You have the signalling apparatus, I

hope?"

"Trust me for that, von Ruhle," replied his companion, tapping his

breast-pocket.  "All we have to do is to wait until yonder lighthouse

exposes its light.  Really the ways of these English pass

understanding.  They rigorously forbid the showing of lights in private

houses on shore, imagining that our agents would be so foolish as to

start blinking with a lamp; yet they allow these lighthouses to work as

usual, and obligingly enable us to communicate to our hearts' content."

Von Hauptwald was not far wrong in his remarks, for the instrument he

had enabled him to flash a message to a confederate without having to

be in possession of a lamp.  The flash was obtained from any distant

and visible light by means of a complicated system of mirrors.  The

reflected rays could then be projected in any desired direction so as

to be quite invisible except on a certain bearing.  It was one of the

carefully-thought-out plans adopted by the German Government to permit

its spies to communicate with their submarines without running any

great risk of detection.

"It's two hours to sunset," remarked the doctor; "three before we

commence operations.  I would suggest that we adjourn to the cave and

partake of refreshment.  You see, I have not omitted to make suitable

provision."

"Very good!" agreed von Ruhle; "but I only wish I had a waterproof.

The rain is most annoying."

Arm-in-arm the two men left the building, and presently disappeared

from view behind a slight rise in the ground.

"I say!" exclaimed Ross; "we've tumbled on something this time.  Fancy

Ramblethorne a rotten German spy.  I always thought he was a rattling

good chap."

"Evidently he isn't," rejoined Vernon.  "But the point is: what do you

propose to do?  It's beastly wet here."

"It is, now I come to think of it," agreed his chum.  "The fact is,

that until you mentioned it I was hardly aware that it was raining.

We'll discuss this knotty point."

"I vote we make tracks for the boat," suggested Haye.  "The tide must

be rising by this time.  We can then slip off and raise the alarm."

Ross shook his head.

"No go," he decided.  "We might get nabbed ourselves.  Besides, who

would be able to lay these chaps by the heels?  There's only that

motor-boat chap at Penydwick Cove, and he's precious little use.  There

are no soldiers nearer than at St. Bedal.  I propose we hang on here.

There's a snug, sheltered hole in these ruins, just big enough for us

to lie hidden.  Then we stand a good chance of hearing more of the

conversation between those beggars."

"Three hours more, remember."

"Yes, I know.  In the meanwhile we might slip down to Main Beach Cove.

There's plenty of cover amongst the rocks."

"What for?" asked Vernon.

"To see what these fellows are up to.  I'm rather anxious to renew my

slight acquaintance with friend Copperstick.  By Jove, what a cute move

to get contraband metal into Germany!"

"Not much at a time.  It shows how hard up the Germans must be for

copper when it pays a fellow to carry over about half a hundredweight

at a time."

"Well, let's get a move on," said Ross.  "Be careful how you descend.

The ivy will be fairly slippery with the wet."

Cautiously the two lads descended, reaching the ground without mishap.

"Our sweaters!" exclaimed Vernon.

"Dash it all!  Yes," agreed his companion.  "I had forgotten all about

them."

The sweaters, carefully rolled up, had been placed for security in one

corner of the chapel.  Unless anyone actually came close to the spot,

they were hidden from sight.

"Neither of those fellows stood about here, I think," remarked Ross as

the chums retrieved and donned the additional clothing.  "It's jolly

lucky, or they would have smelt a rat."

Trefusis and his companion went out into the rain, walking rapidly

towards a slight mound capped by a few irregularly shaped stones.  It

was behind this rise of ground that the two spies had gone.  Up to this

point, Ross argued, there was little need for caution; beyond, it would

be necessary to keep well under cover until they reached Main Beach.

"'Ware the skyline," cautioned Ross as the chums approached the hillock.

"Ay; 'ware the skyline," said a deep voice mockingly, "It's bad

strategy."

Turning, the lads made the disconcerting discovery that Ramblethorne

and von Ruhle were within five yards of their would-be trackers.

Ross realized that he and his chum had been badly outmanoeuvred.

Evidently the Germans suspected that they had been overheard, and

ostentatiously leaving the ruins for Main Beach Cove, they had made a

detour from the hillock, and had waited until Ross and Vernon had

emerged from the chapel.  Then, taking advantage of the wet grass that

effectually deadened the sound of their footsteps, they had turned the

tables on their shadowers.

So completely taken aback were the two lads that they stood stock-still

as if rooted to the earth.

"Not a nice evening to be out, Trefusis," continued the doctor.  "What

brings you on St. Mena's Island at this late hour of the day?"

"Our boat was left high and dry by the tide, so we had to wait and take

shelter," replied Ross.

"And so you chose a place where there was no shelter," remarked

Ramblethorne.  "Idiotic thing to do--very idiotic.  Now tell me: what

were you doing on the top of the tower?"

Ross did not hesitate in his reply.  Perhaps it would have been better

had he done so, for he had never betrayed his knowledge of German to

the doctor on any of their previous meetings, and it would have been

judicious to keep up the deception.

"What were we doing?  Listening to your precious schemes," he retorted

boldly.  "Now we know all about you, and it will be our duty to report

you as spies to the authorities.  We are expecting a search-party from

Killigwent Hall at any moment, you see."

"So that's the line of defence you propose to adopt, eh?" sneered

Ramblethorne.  "Well, look out!"

With a sudden spring the athletic man flung himself upon Ross, while

von Ruhle with equal promptitude made a rush to secure Vernon.

Strong and active though he was, Ross was no match for his huge and

powerful antagonist.  Knowing that flight was impossible, the lad

feinted, and aimed a blow with his left straight for the doctor's chin.

This Ramblethorne parried easily, and grasping the lad's wrist, held it

as in a vice, and in such a manner that rendered fruitless any attempt

on Trefusis' part to make use of his right arm.

Having thus secured his opponent, Ramblethorne watched the result of

the encounter between his fellow-spy and young Haye.

Von Ruhle had opened the attack by brandishing his heavy stick, and

calling upon Vernon to surrender.

Haye returned the compliment by closing, and dealing the German such a

terrific blow upon the chest that von Ruhle recoiled quite a couple of

yards.  The lad's onslaught had only missed the German's solar plexus

by a few inches; had it not, the chances were that von Ruhle would have

lost all interest in life for the next quarter of an hour.

But instead of following up his initial success Vernon, seeing Ross

helpless in the doctor's grip, rushed to his chum's aid.  For a few

seconds he feinted, striving to find an opening, while Ramblethorne,

dragging his captive with him, pivoted in order to keep his front

towards his new antagonist.

Those few seconds were Vernon's undoing.

Quickly recovering himself, von Ruhle sprang forward with the agility

of a panther.  The imitation Malacca cane descended with a dull thud

upon the lad's head, and like a felled ox Vernon fell inertly upon the

sodden grass.

"Hold him--so," exclaimed Ramblethorne, handing Ross over to the

custody of von Ruhle.  Then drawing a small hypodermic syringe from a

case, the former inserted the needle into the lad's forearm.

Five seconds later Ross Trefusis lay unconscious beside his companion

in misfortune.

CHAPTER III

Kidnapped

"I thought you had killed him, von Ruhle," said the doctor, bending

over Vernon and making a cursory examination of the unconscious lad.

"I thought I had," was the unconcerned reply.  "Dead men tell no tales."

"There I beg to differ," protested Ramblethorne.  "Corpses have a nasty

way of turning up at inopportune moments.  These youngsters are worth

more to us alive than dead."

"How so?"

"One is a son of Admiral Trefusis; his companion is, I believe, also a

son of a distinguished English naval officer."

"Well, and what of it?" asked von Ruhle.

"Hostages," replied the doctor briefly.  "Later I will explain.

Meanwhile we'll carry them to the cave.  It's farther than back to the

ruins; but perhaps, as young Trefusis said, there may be a

search-party, and the ruins would be one of the first objects of

investigation."

Although, with the exception of periodical visits abroad, Dr.

Ramblethorne had lived in England all his life and was a fully

qualified medical man, he was a highly trusted and talented agent of

the German Secret Service.  Months before the outbreak of war, he had

been ordered to report upon the defences of Devonport, and in order to

do this he had bought a practice on the outskirts of Plymouth.  Upon

the commencement of hostilities, he was detailed to keep under

observation the military preparations of the Duchy of Cornwall, and

also to take necessary steps for communicating with German submarines

that, under von Tirpitz's prearranged scheme, were to operate in the

Bristol Channel.  Von Ruhle was one of the few subordinates he actually

knew.  There were others with whom he communicated only through an

intermediary, and who knew him only by a number.

Von Ruhle was almost as mentally clever as his superior.

Ostentatiously he was an Englishman.  Sometimes he posed as a mining

engineer; at others as a commercial traveller; as an accredited

representative of the British Red Cross Society he was in the habit of

making frequent journeys to Holland, presumably in connection with work

at Groningen Internment Camp.  At the present time, his activities were

centred upon the formation of a secret petrol depot for the supply of

fuel to unterseebooten operating in the Bristol Channel and off the

south coast of Ireland.

A couple of slight incidents had served to put the cautious

Ramblethorne on his guard during his interview with von Ruhle in the

ruined chapel.

Although he verbally deprecated his subordinate's alarm when the lads

accidentally dislodged a stone from the tower, it was merely to disarm

possible eavesdroppers of any suspicion that their presence was

suspected.

The ability to control his feelings was one of the super-spy's chief

assets.  Suspicion once aroused, he proceeded without the faintest sign

to investigate his surroundings.  His keen eye soon lighted upon the

lads' sweaters.  Then it was that an adjournment was suggested to Main

Beach Cove.

This was simply and solely a "blind", for on gaining the cover of the

boulder-strewn hillock the doctor communicated his suspicions to his

companion.  The pair then crouched behind the rocks, whence they were

able to command a view of the tower.

It was not long before their enterprise met with success.  They saw

Trefusis and his chum cautiously descend by means of the ivy; then,

directly the lads set out upon their ill-starred tracking expedition,

the Germans, as before related, succeeded in outflanking them and

effecting their capture.

"Time!" announced Ramblethorne, consulting his watch.

"Are these safe?" asked von Ruhle, stirring Vernon's unconscious form

with his foot.

"Quite; though, perhaps, to make sure I will give this youngster a

slight injection.  Pity you hadn't held him with the double arm-lock

instead of cracking him over the head.  Herr Kapitan Schwalbe won't

want to be troubled with a passenger with a swollen head."

Leaving their senseless victims in the cave, the two Germans again

ascended the hill to St. Mena's Chapel.  As they breasted the summit,

they could see the fixed white light of Black Bull Head showing

momentarily brighter and brighter against the rapidly failing daylight.

Setting a prismatic compass in position upon the sill of one of the

glazeless windows, Ramblethorne took a careful bearing in a seaward

direction.  This done, he pointed the projector of the signalling

apparatus in precisely the same direction, and threw a waterproofed

cloth over the instrument.

"Too early yet, von Ruhle," he remarked.  "Nevertheless it is advisable

to fix our bearings while twilight lasts.  A light might spell

disaster."

"A deucedly unpleasant night for such a task," grumbled von Ruhle.

"On the contrary, it is just the very thing," replied the doctor.  "It

is not thick enough to be dangerous, but the rain is just sufficient to

assist in the screening of U75.  Do not think of your personal comfort,

my dear von Ruhle, when urgent work for the Fatherland has to be

undertaken."

For another half-hour the two men paced the grass-grown stones.  Their

choice of St. Mena's Island as a secret signalling station was an

excellent one.  It was isolated, and, being slightly greater in

elevation than the cliffs of the mainland in the immediate vicinity,

would effectually screen any ray of light sent landwards from the

expected German submarine.  Thus all danger of the narrow gleam of

reflected light being detected by the none too smart members of the

coast patrol was entirely obviated.

"Time!" exclaimed the doctor, consulting the luminous face of his watch.

Dexterously, and without disturbing the position of the instrument, von

Ruhle whipped off the covering.  Although there were no visible signs

that anything was taking place, both men knew that a beam of light,

reflected from the distant lighthouse on Black Bull Head, was being

directed seawards.

In silence the two men peered through the driving rain, von Ruhle

making use of a pair of powerful night-glasses.

Suddenly, after an interval of almost five minutes, a faint pin-prick

of light flickered from the surface of the sea.

Instantly Ramblethorne stepped a dozen paces to the right.

"I can see nothing from here," he announced in a low voice.  "Can you?"

"Yes," replied his companion.

"Good: that's friend Schwalbe."

The doctor was right.  From the deck of the unterseeboot a signalling

apparatus similar to that employed by the spies was in use.  By an

ingenious automatic arrangement it projected a beam of light, derived

from the same sources as that on St. Mena's Island, rigidly in a fixed

direction, regardless of the "lift" of the submarine under the action

of the waves.

For several minutes a rapid exchange of signals was maintained; then

the two spies, folding up their apparatus, walked rapidly towards Main

Beach Cove.

They had not long to wait before the faint sound of oars was borne to

their ears.

"Himmel!  They have arrived already," exclaimed von Ruhle.

"So it appears," replied Ramblethorne dryly.  "I pride myself that I

have exceptionally good eyesight, but I fail to see her.  The neutral

colour of the submarine is indeed excellent for night work."

They descended the sandy and shingly beach until further progress was

barred by the lapping wavelets of the rising tide.

Through the mirk loomed up the outlines of a canvas collapsible boat

crowded with men.  At two lengths from the shore the rowers laid on

their oars.  One of the men gave vent to a low whistle resembling the

call of a curlew.

"All clear," replied Ramblethorne.

The boat's keel rasped on the shingle.  A cloaked figure in the

stern-sheets made his way for'ard and leapt ashore.

"Herr von Hauptwald?" he asked.

"The same," replied the doctor.  "And Kapitan Schwalbe?"

"The captain is still on board," replied the officer.  "It is hard to

resist the opportunity of getting ashore after being cooped up there

for more than a fortnight.  But the petrol?"

"We have not so much as we hoped to obtain," replied von Ruhle.

The Leutnant muttered an oath.

"And how is business?" asked Ramblethorne, with a view of distracting

the officer's thoughts from the shortage of fuel.

The Leutnant muttered another oath.

"Bad!" he replied savagely.  "Only one wretched little tramp steamer,

which we fell in with about twenty miles from the Stacks.  She gave us

a run for our money, but we had her at last.  Even then she tried to

ram us.  One has to be most cautious also.  These accursed English have

been far too active with their new-fangled contrivances.  We called up

U71 early this morning.  She replied.  Again at noon we called her, but

there was no reply.  U70 we have lost all touch with since Monday, yet

she was under orders to assist in the blockade of the Bristol Channel

until we, as senior unterseeboot, gave instructions to return to

Wilhelmshaven."

"Lost, I suppose," remarked Ramblethorne.

The Leutnant had walked to a distance of nearly ten yards from his men,

who were drawn up in military order awaiting their officer's commands.

He lowered his voice.

"Although I am sorry to say it," he declared, "I am afraid she has gone

too.  Our losses are not only serious--they are appalling.  Submarine

work is now a continual nightmare.  We do our duty, but before long, if

we are sufficiently fortunate to escape the toils that these English

cast about us, we shall all be physical wrecks."

The man's agitation increased as he spoke.  Obviously he was labouring

under a severe strain.

"And this petrol?" he asked anxiously.  "What quantity?"

Ramblethorne told him.

"Not enough," declared the Leutnant.  "Himmel, it is not enough to get

us round Cape Wrath.  On board we have only sufficient for six hours'

surface running, while our batteries are not far short of running down.

You had better see the captain and explain."

Leaving von Ruhle to direct the seamen to the secret petrol store in

the cave, Ramblethorne accompanied the Leutnant to the submarine.

The U75 was one of the latest type of Germany's submarines.  Over three

hundred feet in length, there was little about her in common with the

accepted idea of under-water craft.  Her deck ran in one continuous

sweep for almost her entire length, and rose nearly six feet above the

surface.  The visible part of her sides was perpendicular, the bulging

sections being entirely beneath the surface.  Her conning-tower was

surrounded by a platform as long as the navigation-bridge of a modern

destroyer.  The two periscopes were "housed", but two slender

"wireless" masts gave the boat the appearance of a swift torpedo craft.

Acknowledging a salute from a burly quartermaster, Ramblethorne gained

the deck, and was escorted aft by the Leutnant.  Pacing the tapering

platform was a broad-shouldered, fair-haired man of about thirty,

although a carefully trimmed blonde beard made him look much older.

He lacked the natural elastic stride of the British naval officer.  His

movements resembled those of a thoroughly drilled soldier, yet ever and

anon he would glance furtively in the direction of the open sea as if

in constant dread of sudden and unknown peril.

"Greetings, Herr von Hauptwald!" he exclaimed, when the Leutnant had

formally introduced his visitor.  "You are well known to me by repute,

but I doubt whether we have met before."

"I fancy so," rejoined the doctor.  "Do you not remember that little

affair in the Strauer Platz?  Ah, I thought you would!  But to come to

the point.  We have been unable to obtain the requisite quantity of

petrol."

"Somehow I thought it," replied Kapitan Schwalbe.  "How much have you?"

Ramblethorne told him.

"Enough, with what we have left on board, for only eight hundred miles

run.  It will not take us home, and we are under orders not to leave

these waters before Friday next.  We have been let down badly."

"I know that it is useless to express regrets," said Ramblethorne

boldly.  "I can only hope that other means of supplying the requisite

fuel will be forthcoming.  But here is another matter.  We have had to

secure two English lads, both sons of distinguished naval officers.

Unfortunately they overheard a conversation between von Ruhle and

myself.  In the interests of the Secret Service it is absolutely

necessary that they are kept out of the way for at least a couple of

months.  I am averse to doing them personal injury."

"Then what do you wish?" asked Kapitan Schwalbe.

"Take them on board with you.  If possible, land them at a German port.

If this be possible, you will realize that we have a strong tool to

work with."

"I fail to understand," said the Kapitan of U75.

"They could be made good use of as hostages," resumed Ramblethorne.

"If these English persist in talking about reprisals, we can hint

that--well, it is unnecessary to go into details."

"I see," remarked Kapitan Schwalbe.  "But if it is impossible to land

them?"

"Then you must put them on board the first outward-bound tramp steamer

you fall in with--provided she is bound for South American ports, or

anywhere that will mean a long voyage."

"Very well," assented the submarine officer.  "I quite understand your

anxiety to get them out of the way."

"Temporarily, mind," added Ramblethorne.

"Precisely.  Herr Rix," he exclaimed, addressing the Leutnant.  "Take

four men and go ashore.  Von Ruhle will tell you where these English

boys are; have them brought on board."

"One moment," interrupted Ramblethorne.  "They came to the island in a

boat.  There is nothing unusual in that, I admit, but the fact remains

that the boat is still lying in the cove next to this.  You might order

the men to set the boat adrift."

"Water-logged, and with sails set and the main-sheet made fast.

Another deplorable accident.  Ach!  It shall be so."

Half an hour later Ross Trefusis and Vernon Haye, still unconscious

under the action of the anaesthetic injection, were brought on board

U75 and passed below.  Their boat, lying on its beam-ends, was drifting

slowly in the direction of Black Bull Head.  Ramblethorne and von

Ruhle, their work for the present done, were already on the way to the

mainland.

Meanwhile, alarmed at the non-appearance of the young heir to

Killigwent Hall and his guest, a party had set off to search St. Mena's

Island.

Just as the boat's keel grounded on the beach of Half Tide Cove, the

German submarine slipped quietly through the blurr of misty rain, and

under cover of darkness headed towards the mouth of Bristol Channel.

CHAPTER IV

The Awakening

"Dash it all!  What am I doing here?" muttered Ross Trevor drowsily, as

he opened his eyes.

For the moment he quite imagined that he was in his dormitory at

school, and that by an oversight the rest of his chums had left him in

bed.  The suggestion was strengthened by the sound of gurgling water,

as if the bathroom tap were running.  Then he became aware that

everything was pitching up and down.  Once before he had experienced a

similar sensation--when he had had a violent headache following a

slight touch of sunstroke.

It puzzled him, too, that he was almost in darkness.  Somewhere

without, and partly screened by some projection, an electric light was

burning.  The reflected rays were just sufficient to enable him to take

stock of his surroundings.

No, he was not back in the school dormitory.  True, he had a headache,

but that would not account for the actual motion.  He fumbled, his

fingers came in contact with a curved board that served to prevent the

occupant of the bed--or, rather, bunk--from falling on the floor.

Almost mechanically he rolled out, and stood supporting himself by

grasping the ledge of the bunk.  The swaying, due partly to dizziness

and partly to an unaccountable see-saw motion, would have thrown him to

the floor but for the assistance afforded by the side of the bunk.

Gradually he became aware that there was a similar sleeping-place

immediately beneath the one he had been occupying.  Someone was lying

there, breathing heavily.  There was sufficient light for Ross to

recognize him.  It was his chum Vernon.

Just then a bell clanged noisily.  The sound of running water was

outvoiced by the loud din of machinery in motion.  A wave of hot air

that reminded the lad of the atmosphere of a Tube station wafted past

him.  The whole fabric trembled under the powerful pulsations of the

mechanism.

With his legs trembling through sheer physical weakness, Ross hung on

grimly.  He wanted to shout, but no sound came from his parched tongue.

He was bewildered.  It seemed as if he were in the throes of a terrible

nightmare, and that he would awake on finding himself falling into a

bottomless abyss.

The reflected light was obscured as a broad-shouldered man made his way

along the narrow corridor in which the bunks were placed.  As he did so

he caught sight of the lad.  Without a word he seized Ross in his arms,

not roughly, but nevertheless unceremoniously, and lifted him back into

the bunk.  There was something so peremptory in the action that Ross

lay still and closed his eyes.  All his will power seemed to have

deserted him.

"Make a dash for it, old man!" exclaimed a muffled voice that Trefusis

hardly recognized as his chum's.  "Make a dash for it.  Don't let them

collar us."

It was Vernon rambling in his sleep.  The words were sufficient to give

Ross a key to the hitherto baffling problem.

Like a flash he recalled the episode of their adventure on St. Mena's

Island.  He remembered himself being held in the grasp of the powerful

Ramblethorne until unconsciousness overcame him.  He was still a

prisoner, but with the qualifying knowledge that he was not alone.

Vernon Haye was sharing his captivity, wherever it might be.

"We're afloat then," he muttered.  "What has happened?"

Moistening his lips, Ross leant over the side of the bunk and called

his chum by name.  His voice sounded strangely unfamiliar.  He could

only just hear himself above the clamorous noise of the engines.

It was not long before another man appeared at the end of the corridor.

As he did so he switched on a lamp almost above the lad's head.  For a

few seconds Ross was temporarily blinded by the sudden transition from

artificial twilight to the intense brilliancy of electric light.

"So!  You are now awake, hein?" asked a guttural voice.  "How you vos

feel?"

"Rotten!" replied Ross emphatically.  His reply was brief and to the

point.  It summed up his sensations during the last ten minutes.

The man laughed.

"So you look.  You better soon will be.  You know where you now vos?"

"On board a ship," answered the lad.  He was still hoping against hope

that his questioner was anything but a German.  There was a small

chance that he had by some means been picked up at sea by a Dutch or a

Swedish vessel.

The man's announcement "put the lid on" that possibility.

"Sheep--goot!" he chuckled.  "German unterseeboot--vot you vos call

submarine.  No danger to you boys if you yourselves behave.  Much to

see--ach! plenty much."

The lad's eyes had now become more accustomed to the light.  He could

see that his visitor was a broad-shouldered, muscular man of average

height, florid-featured, and with light-yellow hair and a fair

moustache.  He was dressed in a uniform that was apparently a bad copy

of that worn by executive officers of the British Navy.  On the breast

of his coat he wore an Iron Cross.

"Me Hermann Rix, Ober-leutnant of unterseeboot," he announced.  "Der

Kapitan send me to see how you get better.  Goot!  I tell seaman to

bring food quick.  In one hour you go on deck.  Den you feel all well."

The German Leutnant bent and peered into the lower cot.

"Fat head," he remarked seriously.  "Bad knock, but he get well soon."

With that the officer went away, leaving the light switched on.

Scrambling out of his bunk, Ross approached his chum.  Vernon was now

sleeping quietly.  His face, however, was flushed, while it was quite

evident that he had received a fairly heavy blow across the skull, for

the top of his head was swollen to a considerable extent.

Before Ross had finished his examination a sailor entered, bearing a

tray on which were three slices of rye bread, some tinned beef, and a

bottle of Rhenish wine.

"Sprechen Sie deutsch?" he asked.

For an instant Trefusis hesitated before replying.  To profess

ignorance of the German language would be an immense advantage while on

board the submarine, provided he could control his facial expressions

and listen without betraying himself.  Then, on the other hand, he

reflected that Ramblethorne, the spy, might have been instrumental in

getting him into this predicament.  More than likely the Captain of the

submarine had been informed of the fact that his unconscious passengers

were well acquainted with the tongue-twisting language of the

Fatherland.

"Here is food for you," said the man, placing the tray on the floor.

"You had better take hold of the bottle before it upsets.  We are

rolling a bit.  When your friend open his eyes, call me.  I am in

yonder compartment.  It would be well for you to dress.  I will bring

your clothes to you very soon."

Ross made a sorry meal.  The food was not at all appetizing.  His

throat was in no condition to enable him to swallow easily.  A feeling

of nausea, due either to the motion, the hot, confined air, or the

after effects of the stupefying injection--perhaps a little of all

three--was still present.

He was actually on board a German submarine--one of Tirpitz's

twentieth-century pirates.  He racked his brains to find a reason.

With its limited accommodation an unterseeboot seemed the last type of

craft that would receive a pair of prisoners--and

non-combatants--within its steel-clad hull.  It must have been at

Ramblethorne's instigation; yet why had not the spy knocked the pair of

luckless eavesdroppers over the head and tumbled them into the sea?  It

seemed by far the easiest solution; yet, in spite of that, Ross and

Vernon were being carried to an unknown destination in one of the

"mystery-craft" of the Imperial German Navy.

The reappearance of the seaman bearing Ross's clothes cut short the

latter's unsolved meditations.  Without a word the man laid the neatly

folded garments on the bunk--a pair of flannel trousers, cricket shirt,

underclothes, and the sweater that had been the cause of the lads'

undoing; but in place of his shoes a pair of half-boots, reeking with

tallow, had been provided.

Ross proceeded to dress.  As he did so a voice that he hardly

recognized asked:

"Hulloa, Trefusis, where are we?"

It was Haye.  His companion was now awake, but hardly conscious of his

surroundings.

"Better?" asked Ross laconically.  He could not at that moment bring

himself to answer the question.

"Didn't know that I was ill," remonstrated Vernon.  Then, after a vain

attempt to raise his head--perhaps fortunately, since the bottom of

Ross's cot was within a few inches of his face--he added:

"Dash it all!  I remember.  That beastly German gave me a crack over

the head with his copper walking-stick.  Where are we?"

"In a rotten hole, old man.  We're in a German submarine, bound

goodness knows where."

"Where are my clothes?" asked Haye, this time successfully getting out

of his bunk.  "Since you have yours, there seems to be no reason why I

shouldn't have mine.  Hang it!  What's the matter with me?

Everything's spinning round like a top."

Mindful of the seaman's words, and with a docility that would have

surprised him in different circumstances, Ross staggered along the

corridor.  The passage was about thirty feet in length.  On one side

the metal wall was flat, on the other it had a pronounced curve.

Against it were six bunks arranged in pairs.  Four were used as

stowing-places for baggage, the remaining ones had been given up to the

two prisoners.  The roof was almost hidden by numerous pipes, most of

them running fore and aft, while a few branched off through the walls.

The flat bulkhead evidently formed one of the walls of the engine-room,

for, as the lad placed his hand against it to steady himself, he could

feel a distinct tremor, quite different from the vibration under his

feet.  The floor was of steel, with a raised chequer pattern in order

to give a better grip to one's feet.  At frequent intervals there were

circular places, similar to those covering the coal-shoots in the

pavement of residential thoroughfares.  Walls, ceiling, and floor were

covered with beads of moisture, but whether from condensation or

leakage Ross could not decide.

At the end of the corridor or alley-way was a steel water-tight door,

running in gun-metal grooves packed with india-rubber.  The door was

closed.

Seizing the lever that served as a handle, Trefusis tried to turn it,

but without success.  Failing that, he kicked the steelwork with his

heavy half-boots, yet no response came to his appeal.

"The fellow told me to call," he muttered airily.  "What did he want to

play the fool for?"

Retracing his steps, Ross went to the other end of the alley-way.

There was barely room to pass his companion as he did so.  The place

from which he had previously seen the reflected light was now shut off

by a door similarly constructed to the one that he had vainly attempted

to open.  He was locked in a steel tomb that was itself a metal box

within a metal box--a water-tight compartment of the submarine.

"They might just as well have switched off the light while they were

about it," he exclaimed bitterly; then at the next instant he wildly

regretted his words.  The idea of being imprisoned in that cheerless

compartment without a light of any description appalled him.

Almost frantically he returned to the door that had previously baffled

him.  As he did so he became aware that the submarine was tilting

longitudinally.  Since he was unaware of the direction of the craft,

and which was the bow or stern, he was unable to judge whether the

unterseeboot was diving, or ascending to the surface.

The incline became so great that he had to grasp the door-lever for

support.  Turning his head, he saw that Vernon was hanging on grimly to

the partition between the tiers of bunks.

Then, as the vessel regained an even keel, silently and smoothly the

door slid back in its grooves, revealing a small space barely six feet

in length and five in breadth, and separated from the rest of the

vessel by a closed water-tight panel.  Part of the compartment was

occupied by a bend, at which the seaman to whom he had previously

spoken was busily engaged in mending a rent in an oilskin coat.

"My friend is now awake," announced Ross.

The man laid aside his work.

"Good!" he replied.  "He is just in time.  I will bring him his food

and his clothes.  After that you will both go on deck for fresh air

before you are interviewed by Herr Kapitan Schwalbe.  See that door?

Beyond that you must not pass without permission.  It is forbidden.  If

you do so, you will not have another opportunity in a hurry."

"What are they going to do with us?" asked Ross.

The sailor shook his head.

"It is forbidden to ask questions," he said sternly.  "Whatever is

necessary that you should know will be told you."

He turned his back upon his questioner, signifying in a plain manner

that it was useless for Trefusis to say more.  Taking the hint the lad

returned to his chum, wondering deeply at the fate that had thrown them

into the hands of the enemy.

CHAPTER V

Aboard U75

Like Ross, Vernon Haye made a poor meal.  He had barely finished when a

petty officer appeared and curtly ordered the lads to follow him.

Since he did so in German it was fairly certain that Trefusis'

admission had been communicated to both officers and crew.

Staggering, they passed along the alley-way into a broad subdivision

that extended completely athwartships.  It was one of the two broadside

torpedo-rooms, and contained two tubes of slightly greater diameter

than the British 21-inch.  In "launching-trays" by the side of the

tubes were eight torpedoes with their deadly war-heads attached.  Both

transverse bulkheads were almost hidden by indicators, voice-tubes, and

pipes for transmitting the compressed air from the air-flasks to the

torpedo-tubes.

Passing through another water-tight door the prisoners found themselves

in yet another compartment.  On one side was an "air-lock", with its

complement of life-saving helmets; on the other was an oval-shaped door

forming means of communication with the small room built against the

curved sides of the submarine.  Ross guessed, and rightly as it

afterwards transpired, that the door led into a space that could be

flooded at will, and which in turn enabled a diver to operate from the

U-boat while submerged.

Confronting the lads was an almost perpendicular steel ladder

communicating with the conning-tower.  Their guide was about to ascend

when a stern voice exclaimed in German:

"Not that, you idiotic clodhopper!  Have you lost your reason?  The

forward hatchway, don't you know?"

"Pardon, Herr Leutnant," said the petty officer, abjectly apologetic,

and, backing down the ladder, he passed through another door entering

into an alley-way between the officers' cabins.  Here was the bowl of a

supplementary periscope, so that a vision of what was taking place

could be obtained without going into the conning-tower.

The alley-way terminated at another broadside torpedo-room, the pairs

of tubes pointing in the opposite direction to those the lads had just

seen.

Beyond were the living-quarters of the crew, kept spotlessly clean and

tidy, yet Spartan-like in their simplicity.  Two of the men were sound

asleep in their bunks.  Three more, who were playing cards at a plain

deal table, glanced up from their game as the British lads passed by;

but their interest was of brief duration, and stolidly they resumed

their play.

Stooping down to avoid a large metal trough--the "house" for the

for'ard 105-millimetre disappearing gun--Ross and his chum arrived at

the ladder by which they were to gain the open air.

The hatch-cover was thrown back.  For the first time during their

captivity they made the discovery that it was night.  Looking upwards,

they could see a rectangle of dark sky twinkling with stars that, with

the slight motion of the submarine, appeared to sway to and fro.

The cool night breeze fanned their heated foreheads as they gained the

deck.  For some time, coming suddenly from the glare of the

electrically lighted interior, their eyes were blinded.  They could see

nothing but an indistinct blurr of star-lit, gently heaving water.

Gradually the sense of vision returned.  They found themselves on the

fore-deck of the unterseeboot.  They had made up their minds to see a

turtle-back deck with a narrow level platform in the centre; instead

they found that the deck was almost flat and, in nautical parlance,

flush, save where it was broken by the elongated conning-tower topped

by the twin periscopes and slender wireless mast.

Lying on the deck in all conceivable attitudes were most of the

U-boat's crew, taking advantage of a brief spell on the surface to

breathe deeply of the ozone-laden atmosphere.

Not a light was visible on board.  Even the hatchway by which the lads

had gained the deck was constructed to trap any stray beam from the

brilliant glare below.

Miles away, and low down upon the horizon, a white light blinked

solemnly; then after a brief interval it was succeeded by a red gleam.

This in turn was followed by white again.

Trefusis, with a sailor's inborn instinct, began to count the

intervals.  Although having no means of consulting the only

time-recording watch in the possession of the two captives, he had a

fair idea of counting seconds.  At fourteen from the disappearance of

the red light the white appeared.  An almost identical space of time

occurred before the red reappeared.

"It's the Wolf Light," mentally ejaculated the lad.

His next step was to fix the bearing of the lighthouse.  This he did by

looking for the Great Bear, and then, following the Pointers, the North

Star.

"Phew!" he muttered softly.  "Nor'-nor'-west.  This brute of a

submarine is right in the chops of the Channel--the main highway for

vessels making for London and the south coast ports."

"What's that?" asked Vernon, who heard his chum speaking, but had

failed to grasp the significance of his words.

"Nothing," replied Ross almost in a whisper.  "I'll tell you later."

The cool air had revived both lads wonderfully.  They had been left to

their own devices, for the petty officer had gone aft.  Those of the

crew who were on deck seemed as apathetic as the men below concerning

the presence of the kidnapped youths.  They looked like men utterly

worn out by fatigue and nervous strain.

Grasping the flexible wire hand-rail Ross continued his survey of the

horizon, all of which was visible except a small portion obscured by

the rise of the conning-tower.  The air was remarkably clear.  Taking

into consideration the refraction of the atmosphere, the navigation

lamps of a vessel shown at twenty feet above the sea would be visible

from the low-lying deck of the submarine at a distance of six to seven

miles.

But there were no signs of any vessels in the vicinity.  The German

submarine rolled lazily in complete isolation, waiting, like a snake in

the grass, for its prey.

"Herr Kapitan would see you," exclaimed the guttural voice of the petty

officer.  "Come aft.  Remember, when you are addressed, to remove your

caps."

The man led the way, making no attempt to avoid the recumbent limbs and

bodies of the crew who impeded his passage.  Treading with discretion

Ross and Vernon followed till, after skirting the base of the

conning-tower, they found themselves in the presence of

Lieutenant-Commander Schwalbe, the Kapitan of U75.

Schwalbe was sitting in a small arm-chair which had been brought from

his cabin.  He was smoking a cigar.  At his elbow stood his satellite,

Hermann Rix, who was also smoking.  This luxury was denied the crew,

the officers being permitted to smoke only when the submarine was

running awash or resting on the surface.

[Illustration: THE INTERVIEW WITH THE GERMAN CAPTAIN (missing from

book)]

"So you have recovered from your little involuntary rest," exclaimed

Schwalbe in excellent English.  He was a remarkably good linguist, for

previous to the outbreak of the war he had been the skipper of a

North-German-Lloyd boat.  By sheer good luck he had reached a home port

the day after the momentous declaration of hostilities, having narrowly

escaped capture by a British destroyer.

Owing to the great expansion of the German submarine service, and its

equally rapid reduction at the hands of the British Navy, the supply of

specially trained officers of the Imperial Navy for this branch had run

out.  More had been transferred from the pent-up High Seas Fleet, while

others had been absorbed from the now useless German Mercantile Marine,

and hastily put through a course of instruction.  Schwalbe was one of

these, and after less than two months' hazardous work in the capacity

of Unter-leutnant found himself in command of U75, one of the "last

words" of von Tirpitz's piratical fleet.

Neither Ross nor Vernon replied.  They could form no suitable answer.

It was no doubt very considerate on the part of the Kapitan to enquire

after their healths, but somehow the lads felt that the skipper of U75

was responsible for their presence on board.

"Come, come," continued Schwalbe.  "Don't be sulky."

"We are not," expostulated Ross.

"I'm glad to hear it," rejoined the Kapitan, with a grin that had the

effect of letting his cigar fall to the deck.  He stooped to retrieve

it, but, suddenly remembering that it was beneath his dignity, changed

his mind and kicked the glowing stump on one side.  Having taken

another from a gun-metal case, he lit it with a device that merely

smouldered instead of giving a bright light.

"It is as well we understand each other," he continued.  "Do you know

why you are on board U75?"

"No, sir," replied Ross.

"Neither do I," rejoined Schwalbe with astonishing candour.  "I wish I

had not been honoured with your company."

"The remedy is in your hands then, sir," said Trefusis.  "You can land

us the next time you put in at St. Mena's Island for petrol, or else

put us on board the first fishing craft we fall in with."

"I beg to differ," was the rejoinder.  "Unfortunately you are on board,

and you must make the best of it, I understand from my friend--shall I

say Dr. Ramblethorne--that you are both very inquisitive.

Inquisitiveness is a bad trait in ones so young.  You see, it has got

you into trouble.  The doctor has strong reasons for getting me to take

care of you for some considerable time, so you will have an opportunity

of seeing how we Germans make war.  No half-measures, mark you.  It is

useless to make war with a velvet glove.  You English people call us

pirates, I believe?"

"It certainly looks like piracy when German submarines sink harmless

merchantmen without warning," declared Vernon.

"For my part I have never sent a merchant vessel to the bottom without

warning," said Schwalbe.  "As a seaman I regret having to sink any ship

of commerce.  As an officer of the German Navy I have to obey orders

unquestionably.  Nevertheless I have always given the crews of British

ships a chance of escape, and have never sunk any vessel until the men

are safely in the boats, unless she attempts to show fight or to run

away."

"Would you blame a skipper for trying to save his ship?" asked Ross.

"You do not understand," exclaimed Schwalbe.  "We are at war.  A

blockade has been declared upon the British Islands.  If, after full

warning, merchantmen persist in taking the risk, it is their look-out,

not mine.  However, to return to a more personal matter: having been

saddled with you, I must endure your presence.  You will be well fed,

as far as the resources at our command will allow.  You will be free to

go wherever you wish on board, with the exception of the conning-tower,

motor- and torpedo-rooms.  I am not ungrateful, for my brother, who had

the misfortune to be in the _Ariadne_, was captured by your fleet.  He

is being well treated somewhere in England.  Hence I give privileges to

the son of Admiral Trefusis and the son of Commander Haye so long as

they are my compulsory guests.  But bear in mind: you will be watched.

Should you commit any fault, however slight, you will pay dearly for

it.  If you are foolish enough to attempt any act of treachery, death

will be the penalty.  Have I made myself perfectly clear?"

"Yes, sir," replied both lads.

"Very well.  Is there anything you would like me to do within the

bounds of reason?"

"Could we communicate with our parents?" asked Ross.

"No," replied Schwalbe decisively.  "There are strong objections.  And,

while I am on the subject, should you fall in with the crews of

destroyed ships you are strictly forbidden to communicate with them

either by word or gesture.  That will be a punishable offence of the

second degree.  Anything more?"

"My friend has had a nasty knock on the head," said Trefusis.  "Have

you a doctor on board?"

Again Kapitan Schwalbe smiled broadly.

"No," he replied.  "There is no need.  Cases of illness must wait till

we return to port.  The only injuries we are likely to sustain would

put us beyond all medical aid.  But several of the men are fairly

skilled in rough surgery, so I will----"

"Vessel on the port bow, sir; she's showing no lights," announced a

voice.

"All hands to stations!" ordered the skipper.

"Down below with you!" hissed the petty officer, who during the

interview had stood rigidly at attention at two paces to the rear of

his charges.

Already the hitherto recumbent men were alert.  Quickly, yet in order,

they disappeared down the fore hatchway, and amongst them were Ross and

Vernon.

The officers had taken their places inside the shelter of the

conning-tower.  Everything was battened down from within, and with a

gentle purr the electric motors were set in motion, while at the same

time water ballast was admitted into the trimming-tanks.

Swift and stealthy had been their preparations, but the presence of the

submarine was betrayed by the phosphorescent swirl of the water caused

by the churning of the twin propellers as she slipped beneath the

surface.

Twenty seconds later a swift vessel that looked suspiciously like a

trawler, although her speed belied her, tore over the place where U75

had disappeared.  Bare inches only separated the top of the latter's

conning-tower from the massive keel plates of the craft that had all

but accomplished its mission.

The watch-dogs of the British Navy were at work.

CHAPTER VI

The Tramp

Like a startled hare the unterseeboot fled for shelter.  Not until she

reached a depth of fifteen fathoms did she check her diagonally

downward course.  At intervals a dull booming, audible above the rattle

of the motors, proclaimed the unpleasant fact that her antagonist was

circling around the spot marked by the phosphorescent swirl and the

iridescence of escaped oil, and was firing explosive grapnels in the

hope of ripping open the U-boat's hull.

Kapitan Schwalbe, looking very grey in the artificial light, was

standing behind the quartermaster.  His hands were clenched in

momentary apprehension.  Beads of perspiration stood out upon his

forehead.  He was experiencing a foretaste of the torment of the lost.

As a submarine officer of the Imperial German Navy he was a failure.

Only sheer luck had hitherto saved him from the fate that had overtaken

scores of his brother officers in that branch of the service.  Skilled

as he was in the handling of a huge liner, he lacked the iron nerve

that is essential to the man who has to risk his life in a steel box

that, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, offers no means of escape

in the event of a catastrophe.

Yet he had to do his duty, notwithstanding his utter distaste for

submarine work.  He had had no option.  The officers of the British

Navy volunteer for submarine duties; those of the German Navy are

simply told off whether they want to or not.

The nerve-racking work was beginning to tell upon him.  His orders

condemned him to a forlorn hope, for the English Channel was known to

be a death-trap for the under-sea blockaders.  The sight of a trawler

filled him with feelings akin to terror.  The possibility, nay

probability, of a merchantman carrying guns made him approach his

intended prey with the utmost caution; yet, as he had remarked to Ross

Trefusis, he had never torpedoed any vessel flying the red ensign

without giving her warning.

But it was not chivalry that prompted Schwalbe to act with

consideration.  Had he been untrammelled he would have sent his prey to

the bottom without compunction, for he had all the brutal instincts of

the kultured Hun.  It was a superstitious fear that held his

frightfulness in check--a presentiment based upon the Mosaic Law, an

eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.

Having placed a considerable distance between him and his attacker,

Kapitan Schwalbe ordered the electric motors to be stopped.  The

ballast tanks were "blown", and cautiously U75 rose to the surface.

It was the best course open to her.  The depth of the water was much

too great to allow her to rest on the bed of the sea.  On the other

hand, in order to keep submerged, the motors would have to be in

motion.  No one knew better than Schwalbe that the British patrol-boats

would be in a position to locate with uncanny certitude the presence of

their quarry, unless the strictest silence were maintained by the

fugitive.

So, ready to dive at the first alarm, U75 floated awash until such

times as were considered favourable for getting under way.  Decidedly

this part of the English Channel was, for the time being at least,

unhealthy; and Kapitan Schwalbe resolved to make for the Bristol

Channel, where the dangers of being destroyed by modern mosquitoes were

more remote.

Meanwhile Ross and Vernon had been sent back to the quarters in the

alley-way, by the side of the motor-room.  Not knowing the reason for

the U-boat's sudden submergence, and consequently unaware of the danger

that threatened her, they formed the erroneous impression that the

submarine was about to attack.

"The old fellow gave us a pretty straight tip," remarked Vernon, when

the chums found themselves alone.  "All the same, I vote we get out of

it at the first opportunity, favourable or otherwise."

"'Ssh," whispered Ross.  "Someone might be listening.  I don't see how

you propose to clear out, though."

"We were on deck just now."

"We were," agreed Trefusis.

"It was fairly dark.  All the men up for'ard were lying down.  It would

have been an easy matter to have dived overboard and swum for it, if we

hadn't been twenty miles or more from land."

"There was a bright look-out kept, all the same," objected Ross.  "And

I wouldn't mind saying that if the submarine were closer inshore,

getting a supply of petrol, for example, we should be closely watched.

All the same, I'm with you if we get the ghost of a chance.  But it's a

rummy affair altogether.  Fancy that chap knowing our names and the

rank of our respective fathers."

"Ramblethorne must have told him that," said Vernon.

"I suppose so; but for what reason?  By Jove, if we get out of this

mess all right, we'll have something to talk about--having been

prisoners on a German submarine!"

The lads were not allowed on deck again that night.  Acting upon Haye's

suggestion they "turned in", and slept fitfully until awakened by the

noise of the watch being relieved.

The seaman, Hans Koppe, brought them their breakfast.  The meal

consisted of fish, coffee, and the usual black bread.  By this time the

captives had practically recovered from the effects of the injection.

Haye's head was still painful, although the headache had left him.

They ate with avidity, owing possibly to the atmosphere of the confined

space, which was highly charged with oxygen.

"What is the Captain's name?" asked Ross, when the man came to remove

the breakfast things.

The sailor told him.

"Where are we now?" enquired Vernon.

The man winked solemnly.

"Afloat," he replied.  "Be content with that."

Just then there were unmistakable signs of activity on the part of the

submarine crew.  Several men hurried along the alley-way, each with a

set purpose.  They paid little heed to the Englanders as they passed.

At their heels came Herr Rix, the Leutnant of the submarine.  He was

beaming affably.

"Goot mornings!" he exclaimed.  "You come mit me, den I show you how we

blockade."

He led the way to the compartment in which the bowl of the

supplementary periscope was placed.  It was now broad daylight, and

consequently the bowl showed a distinct image.  A junior officer was

standing by, but on seeing Rix approach he saluted and moved aside.

"Look!" exclaimed the Leutnant.

Both lads peered into the bowl.  On its dull sides, an expanse of sea

and sky was portrayed.  Beyond that they could see nothing, until Rix

called their attention to a small dark object.

"Englische sheep!" he declared.  "Now you vos watch."

He touched a metal stud.  Instantly an arrangement of telescopic lenses

came into play within the tube of the periscope, with the result that a

small portion of the view was greatly magnified upon the object card.

It revealed a tramp of about nine hundred tons.  She had a single

funnel painted black, with two broad red bands; two stumpy masts, with

derricks, and a lofty bridge and chart-house abaft the funnel.  She was

wall-sided.  Her rusty hull was originally painted black.  Here and

there were squares of red lead, showing that her crew had been engaged

in trying to smarten her up before she reached port.  Aft, frayed and

dirty with the smoke that poured from her funnel, floated the red

ensign.

The submarine began to rise.  Although she tilted abruptly, the image

of the tramp steamer still remained upon the object bowl.  By an

ingenious arrangement, the lenses were constructed to compensate for

any deviation of the tube of the periscope from the vertical.  The lads

could see the bows of the U-boat shaking clear of the water, throwing

cascades of foam off on either side as the passing craft forged ahead

at at least eighteen knots.

Now, for the first time, the skipper of the tramp saw the danger.  He

was a short, thick-set man, with white hair and an iron-grey moustache,

and a face the colour of mahogany.  For an instant he grasped the

bridge-rails and looked towards the submarine, then gesticulated

violently to the man at the wheel.

The spikes ran through the helmsman's hands, as he rapidly revolved the

wheel actuating the steam steering-gear.  The tramp swung hard to port,

with the idea of baffling the momentarily expected torpedo.

Kapitan Schwalbe acted up to his principles.  In any case he was loath

to use a torpedo upon a comparatively small vessel.  In response to an

order, half a dozen of the submarine's crew swarmed on deck, three

going for'ard and three aft.  Within forty-five seconds the two

disappearing guns were raised from the water-tight "houses".

Ross, Vernon, and the German Leutnant remained gazing into the bowl of

the periscope.  The vision so absorbed the attention of the two lads

that they hardly heeded the presence of Herr Rix, who occasionally

emitted grunts of satisfaction or annoyance as the scene was enacted.

The bow gun spat viciously.  The range was but three hundred yards.

The missile passed a few feet in front of the tramp's bows, and,

throwing up a shower of spray that burst inboard on the British

vessel's fo'c'sle, ricochetted a mile or so away.

The tramp's skipper showed his mettle.  Round swung the vessel, listing

heavily as she did so.  By this time the call for more steam had been

responded to, and dense clouds of black smoke belched from her funnel,

mingled with puffs of white vapour as the siren bleated loudly for aid.

Running awash, U75 had a great advantage of speed; overtaking her prey

she was able to send half a dozen shells into the lofty target

presented as she slid by.

Holes gaped in the thin plating close to the waterline.  A shell,

passing completely through the funnel, demolished the siren.  Being

without wireless, the tramp was now without means of long-distance

signalling.

Another missile hit the chart-house and, exploding, swept the frail

structure overboard in a thousand fragments.  The old skipper, hit by a

splinter of wood, fell inertly upon the bridge; but the next instant he

staggered to his feet, bawling to the crew to get the hand-steering

gear connected.

"He's down again!" exclaimed Ross breathlessly, as the brave old man

dropped upon the shattered planking of the bridge.  "Hurrah!  He's

still alive."

The skipper had deliberately taken cover behind the slender shelter

afforded by the metal side-light boards.  By the frantic movement of

his arm, it was evident that he was exhorting his men to "stick it"

like Britons.

The hail of shells continued.  Already fire had broken out on board in

several places.  A sliver of metal sheered through the ensign staff.

Without hesitation one of the crew rushed off, retrieved the

weather-worn bunting, and made his way to the mainmast.

Slowly and deliberately he re-hoisted the ensign until it fluttered

proudly from the truck, then with apparent unconcern the man

disappeared below.

By this time the tramp was again under control, with a course shaped

for land, which lay about ten miles to the S.S.E.  It was, however, a

foregone conclusion that unless help were speedily forthcoming the

vessel was doomed.

The tramp began to heel, almost imperceptibly at first, then with

increasing speed.  She had received her _coup de grâce_.

Still the engines were kept going full speed ahead.  The dauntless

skipper remained on the bridge, with a look of grim resolution on his

weather-beaten features.

Slowly the vessel's way diminished.  Her bow-wave, owing to the

gradually increasing draught, was greater, but less sharp than before.

In a few minutes the water would be pouring over her fore-deck.

Seeing that their work was completed, the pirates ceased fire, the

guns' crews standing with folded arms and stolidly watching the tramp

as she struggled in her death-throes.

Presently a vast cloud of steam issued from her engine-room.  The

inrush of water had damped her furnaces.  The engineer and firemen,

their faces black with coal-dust and streaming with moisture, hurried

on deck.

For another quarter of a mile the doomed vessel carried way, then came

to a sudden stop.  As she did so she gave a quick list to starboard,

until only a few inches of bulwark amidships showed above the waves.

Then, and only then, did the skipper give orders for the boats to be

lowered.  In an orderly manner the crew manned the falls, and the task

of abandoning the ship began.

Without undue haste, the crew dropped into the waiting boats, each man

with a bundle containing his scanty personal effects wrapped up in a

handkerchief.  The Captain was the last to leave.  He did so

reluctantly, his left hand tightly grasping the ship's papers.

Having rowed a safe distance from the foundering vessel, the men rested

on their oars, and waited in silence for the end.  It was not long in

coming.

The tramp was heeling more and more, and slightly down by the bows.

Suddenly she almost righted; then, amid a smother of foam as the

compressed air burst open her hatches, she flung her stern high in the

air.

Even then she seemed in no hurry.  The after part from the mainmast

remained in view, the now motionless propeller being well clear of the

water.

For quite a minute she remained thus, then with a quick yet almost

gentle movement slid under the waves.  The last seen of her was the

weather-worn red ensign still fluttering from the truck.

The periscope's bowl showed nothing but an expanse of sea and sky, and

the two boats rising buoyantly to the waves.

A grim chuckle brought Ross and Vernon back to their surroundings.

Herr Rix was rubbing his hands and grunting with evident satisfaction.

"Goot!" he ejaculated.  "Now, how you like dat?  Now you see how we

German make blockade, hein?"

"A brave deed," replied Ross scornfully, and, gripping Vernon by the

arm, led him back to their uncomfortable quarters in the alley-way.

CHAPTER VII

On the Bed of the Sea

For the next twenty-four hours nothing exciting occurred.  The U-boat

kept to the surface as much as possible, running under her petrol

motors at fifteen knots.  To exceed that pace would mean too great a

consumption of fuel, and already the vessel was short of petrol.

Kapitan Schwalbe was prone to act on the side of extreme caution.

Having sunk one vessel, he would not tackle another in the same

vicinity.  He invariably put at least a hundred miles between him and

the scene of his latest ignominious exploit before attempting another

act of kultur.

Three times during that twenty-four hours he dived: twice on sighting

what were unquestionably Bristol Channel pilot-boats, and on the third

occasion when a Penzance lugger under motor-power (for it was a dead

calm) crossed his track.

All this time a regular stream of shipping was passing up and down the

Bristol Channel, as unconcernedly as in the piping days of peace.  To

anyone but a bumptious German, the sight would have told its own tale;

for the British Mercantile Marine, used to danger and difficulties, was

not to be deterred by the "frightfulness" of von Tirpitz's blockade.

On the contrary, the possibility of falling in with a hostile submarine

gave an unwonted spice to the everyday routine of the toilers of the

sea.

After breakfast on the following morning Ross and Vernon were told to

go on deck.  The sea was still calm, and the submarine, now running

awash at full speed, was cleaving the water with practically dry decks.

The lads soon realized what was in progress.  A couple of miles away

was a large ocean cargo-boat, outward bound, and U75 was in pursuit.

Trefusis and his chum were not allowed for'ard, where the quick-firer

was already in position for opening fire.  They were ordered abaft the

conning-tower, the hatch of which was open.

Kapitan Schwalbe's head and shoulders could be seen projecting above

the opening.  On the raised grating surrounding the conning-tower,

stood a boyish-looking Unter-leutnant.  Hermann Rix was nowhere to be

seen.  Apparently his duties compelled him to remain below.

Presently the quick-firer barked, and a projectile struck the water

about a hundred yards from the starboard side of the pursued vessel.

With the discharge of the gun, a sailor hoisted the black cross ensign

of Germany from a small flagstaff aft, while a signal in the

International Code ordering the British vessel to heave to instantly

fluttered from the light mast immediately abaft the conning-tower.

The only response from the chase was the hoisting of the red ensign,

for previously she had shown no colours.  Slowly, defiantly, the

bunting was hauled close up, and ironically "dipped" three times.

Again and again the submarine's bow-chaser fired.  The shells were well

aimed as regards direction, but all fell short.  Imperceptibly the

merchantman had increased distance.

"Look at the fools!" Ross heard the Kapitan remark, as he kept his

binoculars focused on his intended prey.  "They are trying to snapshot

us.  Are all Englishmen so blind to peril?"

"Are you sure they haven't a couple of quick-firers mounted aft, sir?"

asked the Unter-leutnant.  "There are several men gathered round

something on the poop."

"Himmel, I hope not!" ejaculated Schwalbe.  "But no; had they any guns

they would have opened fire before now.  What is the matter with our

gun-layer?  It is about time he got a shell home."

The Unter-leutnant lowered himself on the foredeck, and shouted angrily

at the seaman whose duty it was to "lay" the bow-chasers.  The man

again bent over the sights.

This time the shell pitched ahead of the chase, but slightly to port.

Some of the spray thrown up by the projectile fell on board.

"Is that the best you can do, you brainless idiot?" shouted Schwalbe

wrathfully.  Now that he was in pursuit he was loath to be baffled, but

at the same time he realized that the submarine was using a lot of

precious fuel and a prodigious amount of ammunition without any

definite result.

In the midst of his torrent of abuse directed upon the luckless

gun-layer, Kapitan Schwalbe suddenly stopped.  Gripping the rim of the

oval hatchway he gazed, horror-stricken, at two objects bobbing in the

water directly in the path of the submarine.  Then, recovering his

voice, he shouted to the quartermaster to port helm.

The fellow obeyed promptly, but it was too late.  Practically

simultaneously, two barrels swung round and crashed alongside the

submarine's hull.

Officers and men, expecting momentarily to find themselves blown into

the air, stood stock-still.  Then, as nothing so disastrous occurred,

Schwalbe gave orders for easy astern.

The barrels, connected by a span of grass rope, had been thrown

overboard from the pursued vessel, in the hope that the submarine would

foul her propellers in the tangle of line.  Once a blade picked up that

trailing rope, the latter would coil round the boss as tightly as a

band of flexible steel.

The plan all but succeeded; only the metal guards protecting the

propellers saved them from being hopelessly jammed.  Yet the attempt

was attended with good results as far as the British ship was

concerned, for by the time U75 had lost way and had cautiously backed

away from the obstruction, the swift cargo-vessel had gained a distance

that put her beyond all chance of being overhauled.

Infuriated by his failure, Kapitan Schwalbe went aft and descended into

his cabin.  He was hardly conscious of the presence of his two

involuntary guests as he passed.  He was thinking of the fate that had

consigned him to a perilous and uncongenial task.  Without doubt the

vessel he had been pursuing was equipped with wireless, and by this

time a number of those dreaded hornets would be tearing towards the

spot.  To add to his discomfiture it was reported to him that the

reserve of fuel on board had seriously dwindled.  In order to remain

effective it was necessary that U75 should replenish her tanks before

another forty-eight hours had passed.

According to his customary tactics, Schwalbe ordered the submarine to

dive to sixty feet.  At that depth she would be safe from any

possibility of being rammed.  Provided she could avoid the under-water

obstructions with which the British naval authorities had sown the bed

of the sea at almost every point likely to be frequented by lurking

hostile submarines, she was in no actual danger.

Gaining his diminutive cabin, Schwalbe by sheer force of habit

consulted the aneroid.  The mercury was falling rapidly.  Since he last

looked, barely two hours previously, it had dropped 764 to 734

millimetres, or an inch and two-tenths.  That meant that the

anti-cyclone was rapidly breaking up, and that a severe gale was

approaching with considerable swiftness.

U75 must submerge and seek shelter.  It was impossible for her to keep

at a uniform depth unless she maintained steerage-way; that meant a

great demand upon her storage batteries.  She could not remain on the

bottom of the sea in a heavy gale, owing to the constant "pumping" or

up-and-down movements caused by the varying pressure of passing waves,

unless she sought a sheltered roadstead--and sheltered roadsteads were

generally mined, or guarded by some ingenious device that had already

accounted for several of U75's consorts.

Producing a chart of the Bristol Channel, Schwalbe unfolded and spread

it upon a table.  Then, in conjunction with a translation of the latest

British Admiralty guide to the west coast of England, he proceeded to

select what he hoped would be a snug shelter during the coming storm.

"Herr Rix!" he shouted.  "I'll make for this anchorage.  There's every

indication of a strong blow from the nor'-east."

"This" was Helwick Channel, a deep, almost blind passage between the

Glamorgan coast and an outlying submerged reef known as the East and

West Helwick.  In fine weather it was a short cut for traders plying

between Llanelly and Swansea.  In bad weather it was a place to be

avoided, as far as sailing vessels were concerned.  Sheltered by the

bold outlines of Worm's Head, it ought to prove an ideal lurking-place

until the gale had blown itself out, for there was little danger of the

place being used as an anchorage, since vessels preferred to give the

rock-bound coast a wide berth.  On this account, it was also highly

probable that the Helwick channel had not been safe-guarded by the

British naval authorities.

Just before sunset, U75, having made the passage unobserved, brought up

in twelve fathoms of water, resting evenly on the firm, hard sands at

the bottom.

Ross and his chum turned in early.  There was nothing for them to do.

They held aloof from the crew; there were no books to entertain them,

no games to amuse them.  The submarine was now motionless, sufficient

water ballast having been taken in to allow her to settle firmly upon

the bottom; but, in order to be prepared, the anchor was let go.  Thus

not the slightest movement of the hull was apparent.  The rest, after

hours of erratic movement on the oily swell, was a welcome one.

The lads had set their joint watch by the submarine's time, which,

being mid-European standard, was one hour fast of Greenwich.

For several hours they slept soundly and undisturbed.  Suddenly they

were both awakened by the muffled tramp of men in heavy sea-boots.  The

solitary light in the alley-way was switched off; the water-tight doors

were firmly closed.  Already the air in the confined space was stifling.

"What has happened?" asked Vernon anxiously, for the vessel, instead of

resting immovably upon the bed of the channel, was now rolling

sluggishly.  Yet she could not be under way, for the motors were silent.

Springing from his bunk, Ross felt for the switch of the electric

light.  It was already down, yet the flow of current was interrupted.

"Let's find out," he said.  "Come along."

The lads, before turning in, had carefully laid out their clothes, so

as to be ready to slip into them at a moment's notice, yet it was a

matter of considerable difficulty to dress in the dark.

"The door's closed," announced Ross as the lads groped their way to the

end of the alley-way.

"I believe the submarine's holed," suggested Haye.

"No; she wouldn't lift as she's doing.  Besides, the crew are moving

about.  Let's bang on the door with our boots."

For several minutes they hammered, but without result.  The air, never

very fresh, was now almost unbearable, owing to lack of ventilation.

The imprisoned youths began to get desperate.

Then, without warning, the door slid back.  The alley-way was flooded

with brilliant light.

"Make haste!" shouted a voice which the lads recognized as that of Hans

Koppe.  At the same time he grasped Ross by the shoulder and literally

dragged him across the steel threshold.  Vernon followed quickly, but

barely had he gained the compartment beyond than the massive steel door

shot back again.

"Didn't you hear the order all hands for'ard?" asked Hans, not

unkindly, for the white faces of the English lads told their own tale.

"No," replied Ross.  "Besides, we are not included in the 'hands', are

we?"

"You'll have to bear the consequences if you don't obey," rejoined

Koppe.  "I'm supposed to be looking after you, but how was I to know

you hadn't turned out?  Fortunately for you, I heard your knocking, and

asked Herr Kapitan to open the doors.  He was angry, but did so."

"What has happened then?" asked Trefusis, for the seaman seemed in a

communicative mood.

"A shift of wind.  It's blowing great guns up aloft, and there's a

terrific tumble into this channel.  We've dragged, or, rather, swung

round our anchor."

"But we are safe enough?" asked Vernon.

"Yes, safe," replied Hans.  "Too safe; we cannot break out our anchor.

They are sending a diver to see what is amiss."

Evidently the diving arrangements on board were not considered to be of

a confidential nature, for Hans led the way to the compartment under

the fore-hatch, without the lads being sent back by the significant

word "verboten".

A man was preparing for a submarine walk.  He was already dressed in an

india-rubber suit, with leaden weights attached to his chest, back, and

boots.  Two others were standing by, ready to place the helmet over his

head, when Leutnant Rix had finished giving him minute directions.

The officer spoke rapidly and in a low tone.  Ross could not catch all

he said, but the words "gefährliche Strömungen" (dangerous currents)

and "Der Wendepunkt der Flut" (slack water) and "Drei Viertel funf" (a

quarter to five) occurred frequently.

Vernon glanced at his watch.  It was then a minute after four.

Apparently Rix was impressing upon the man that he must clear the

anchor at slack water, which occurred at a quarter to five.

The two attendants then proceeded to place the diver's helmet on his

head.  The lads noticed that it had neither air-tube nor telephone

wire.  Nor was there a life-line attached to his waist.  Fresh air was

obtained from a metal case strapped to his back.  The man was able to

work independently, and without having to rely upon his air supply from

the submarine.

The oval door in the diving-chamber was thrown open.  The diver

entered, and the water-tight panel was quickly replaced.  One of the

seamen thrust over a short lever, and immediately water rushed into the

small compartment.  As soon as the space was filled the diver was able

to open a similar door in the outer plating of the submarine, and thus

gain the bed of the sea.

Presently Leutnant Rix turned, and saw for the first time that Ross and

Vernon were discreetly standing in the background.

"Go away.  It is forbidden!" he shouted angrily.

They obeyed promptly, retreating to the space allotted to the crew,

since it was neither desirable nor possible to return to their bunks.

For some minutes the luckless Hans Koppe was subjected to a severe

dressing-down by his hot-headed officer, and when at length the seaman

rejoined the lads he was in no humour to resume conversation.

Slowly the minutes sped.  The submarine was still rolling sluggishly,

in spite of the fact that more water had been admitted into the ballast

tanks.

The men were talking seriously amongst themselves.  From scraps of

conversation that drifted to the lads' ears, it was evident that they

had grave doubts concerning the ability of the diver to perform his

task, and even of his chances of regaining the submarine, owing to the

violent disturbances of the water.

Presently the motion of the anchored submarine became more acute.  A

weird grating sound--the noise made by the hull rasping over the bed of

the sea--was distinctly audible.

One of the seamen produced a pocket compass.  His startled exclamation

brought other members of the crew around him.  The magnetic needle was

apparently describing a semicircle.  U75 was swinging round her anchor.

Just then a bell tinkled, and a disc oscillated on the indicator board

on the bulkhead.  Instantly the two men who had been told off as

attendants upon the diver hurried aft, while their companions crowded

expectantly around the door.

The two men came back, staggering under the weight of the diver.  They

had already removed his head-dress and leaden weights.  Water dropped

from his rubber suit.  His face was livid, his eyes wide open and

rolling.  One of his bare hands was streaked with blood that flowed

sullenly from a cut in his numbed flesh.

Kapitan Schwalbe and Leutnant Rix followed him into the crew-space.  It

was not through feelings of compassion that they had come for'ard.  It

was acute anxiety to hear the diver's report.

The luckless man was laid upon the mess-table.  His attendants divested

him of his diving-suit, and rubbed his body with rough towels.  A petty

officer poured half a glass of brandy down his throat.

"What is amiss?" Kapitan Schwalbe kept on repeating.

With a great effort the diver sat up.

"An anchor, sir," he gasped feebly.  "An anchor--an English naval

pattern one--has been dropped right over ours.  A very big one."

Then his eyes closed, and he fell back unconscious.

"Gott in Himmel!" ejaculated Rix.  "We are trapped!"

CHAPTER VIII

Balked by a Sea-plane

"How so?" demanded Kapitan Schwalbe.  "If we keep quiet, the

cruiser--for cruiser she must be, judging by the fellow's

description--will weigh and proceed."

"When she does weigh we are undone," said Rix despondently.  "We are

swinging round our anchor.  For all we know, our cable has taken a turn

round hers.  As soon as they heave up their anchor, our anchor and

cable will be brought up with it, and then the game is up.  Either the

strain will overcome our dead weight and we will be hauled to the

surface, or else they'll lower one of their brutal explosive charges."

"The situation is serious," admitted Schwalbe in a low tone, for his

Leutnant's words had produced a demoralizing effect upon the men.  "How

much cable have we inboard?"

Rix repeated the question.  A petty officer doubled forward to consult

the cable indicator.  U75's anchor, when under way, was housed in a

trough on the under side of the submarine's forefoot.  The cable was

automatically ranged in a compartment between the inner and outer

skins, the space being always filled with water.  The inboard end of

the cable was not shackled; but to prevent its being able to take

charge and run out, an indicator was placed on the bulkhead nearest to

the cable tier.  The amount of chain let go was regulated by a

compressor, which was actuated from within the hull by means of levers

and cranks, watertight glands being provided to prevent any leakage

into the interior of the submarine.

"Seventy-five fathoms," reported the petty officer.  "When we commenced

to swing we paid out the length we had taken on board when we hove

short."

"We must sacrifice the lot, Herr Rix," decided Kapitan Schwalbe.

"There is no time to lose.  Storm or no storm, we must slip and run for

it."

It was U75's only chance, but it left her with only a small stockless

kedge-anchor and chain, insufficient to withstand a heavy strain.

The compressor was released.  With a loud rumble, for every sound was

magnified within the confined space, the rest of the cable was allowed

to take charge.  It did so promptly, the end of the chain giving the

hull a defiant smack as it did so.  U75, no longer held by her anchor,

began to drift with the tide, scraping dismally over the bed of Helwich

Channel.

Schwalbe was now back at his post in the conning-tower.  He dare not

take the submarine to the surface until he had put a safe distance

between him and the anchored British warship.  Nor did he care to order

the ballast tanks to be blown.  Rather than allow the "pumping" of the

seas to hammer the submerged craft upon the hard sand, he preferred to

take the risk of letting her drag.

Fortunately the tide set evenly along the bed of the channel.  A

cross-current would have set the submarine upon the jagged rocks of the

hidden West Helwick Ridge.  Nevertheless there was always the danger of

being hurled violently against a detached rock, or of fouling a live

mine if by chance the British had laid obstructions in the channel.

Both Ross and Vernon knew the danger, but, manfully concealing their

misgivings, they watched the faces of those of the crew who were "watch

below".  Most of the men were Frisians, broad-shouldered,

blonde-featured, and generally devoid of fear.  Yet the ceaseless

strain upon the nerves had already begun to tell.  As hardy fishermen,

they would not have hesitated to launch their open boats in a storm to

go to the rescue of a hapless vessel aground on the grim sand-banks of

the Frisian shore.  As the conscript crew of the submarine, compelled

to keep within the limits of a steel box that almost momentarily

threatened to be their tomb, their natural bravery was quenched.

Many of them sat upon their lockers, stolid-faced men who had already

tasted of the bitterness of death.  Others showed unmistakable signs of

excitement, bordering on frenzy.  They dreaded their life of modern

piracy.  The idea of sinking hapless merchantmen was repugnant to them,

for they understood the brotherhood of the sea.  It would be different

if they were called upon to attack an armed British ship of war.  They

had no option but to obey their junker officers, who in turn were

compelled to accept the misguided orders of the arch-pirate, von

Tirpitz.

They were disheartened, too, for reports, in spite of the vigilance of

the officers to conceal them, had reached them of the losses inflicted

upon other unterseebooten.  Occasionally they heard of a submarine crew

being saved, but generally it was a case of total loss of all on board,

by some hitherto unknown means, at the hands of the British Navy.

A hand touched Ross lightly on the shoulder.  Turning, he saw Hans

Koppe standing in a darkened corner of the compartment.

"Can you tell me this, mein herr?" asked the seaman in a low tone.  "Is

it true that the English give no quarter to German seamen in

submarines?"

"I shouldn't think that they would refuse to do so," replied Trefusis.

"Of course, I can quite understand that an opportunity doesn't often

occur; but I've heard of several instances in which your U-boats have

surrendered, and the crews have been treated exactly the same as other

prisoners of war."

"I have heard differently," said Hans, "but I hope it's a mistake.  I

have a feeling that we won't see Wilhelmshaven again.  And I have a

wife and six children at Flensburg.  Our Kapitan, too, expects that we

might be denied quarter, because we have sunk your merchantmen.

Believe me, I regret having done so, but we have orders.  Do you know

why Kapitan Schwalbe took you on board?"

"Because a certain German agent wanted us out of the way, I suppose,"

replied Ross.

"Perhaps," admitted Hans Koppe.  "But in the event of our being

captured he thinks that his good treatment of you will be in his

favour.  We are, I do not mind telling you, in a very tight corner.

Our fuel supply is almost run out.  We cannot hope to return home by

way of the Straits of Dover.  Not one of our submarines has tried that

passage of late without meeting with disaster--at least, so I heard der

Kapitan tell der Leutnant.  Ach!  It is deplorable, this war."

The rapid ringing of a gong was the signal for the watch below to turn

out.  A peculiar hissing noise proclaimed the fact that the ballast

tanks were being emptied.  U75 no longer grated over the bottom; her

motors were running almost dead slow.

Although submerged, the submarine was "pumping" violently.  Seasoned

men were prostrate with sea-sickness.  The air, in spite of chemical

purifiers, was becoming almost intolerable.  Everything movable was

being thrown about in utter disorder, while to add to the discomfort of

the crew the covering-plates of one of the lubricating-oil tanks had

been strained, and at every jerk jets of viscous fluid would squirt

through the fracture and trickle sullenly over the floor of the

crew-space.

Since the watertight doors were still closed, Ross and Vernon were

unable to get back to their bunks.  Feeling thoroughly wretched, they

were glad to accept Hans Koppe's offer to lie down on a long locker.

At noon, U75 came to the surface.  The storm, being short forecasted,

had quickly blown itself out, but the waves still ran high.

It was a prearranged plan on the part of the three U-boats operating in

the English and Bristol Channels to communicate with each other by

wireless at noon and at midnight.  U75's wireless had a range of about

180 miles, and although it could be "jammed", the call could not be

tapped by vessels other than the one for which it was intended.  To

make doubly sure, the messages were sent in code.

For nearly ten minutes U75 "made her number" without eliciting any

reply.  Perhaps it was well that Kapitan Schwalbe did not know what had

happened to her consorts.  U74 was at that moment lying on her side at

the bottom of a Welsh harbour, her crew poisoned by the chlorine fumes

from her batteries--the result of a rash curiosity on the part of her

Lieutenant-Commander to investigate the approaches to the anchorage.

As for U77, she was flying blindly for safety, with a couple of

destroyers hard on her track, and a naval sea-plane overhead to direct

them in their search.

Foiled in her efforts to get in touch with her consorts, U75 remained

awash.  The heave of the sea made it most difficult for her to use her

periscope with certainty, for she had chosen a bad pitch on her

ascent--the furious "overfalls" or "tide-rips" to the west of Lundy

Island.

"We'll pay another visit to St. Mena's Island, Herr Rix," decided

Kapitan Schwalbe, after the two officers had discussed the sinister

matter of their futile attempt to make use of the wireless.  "To-night

at nine o'clock ought to suit.  If we cannot get von Ruhle to see our

signals--for my own part, I doubt whether he is in these parts--we'll

have to do our best to get ashore.  Meanwhile, keep a bright look-out.

If we see any likely vessel coming this way, we'll try our luck once

more."

"Message just received, mein herr," announced the wireless operator.

"From whom?" enquired Kapitan Schwalbe eagerly.  He was devoutly hoping

that either U74 or U77 had been able to "call up".

"I cannot say, sir," replied the man as he handed a code message to his

superior.

Decoded, the "wireless" was as follows:

"Station 41 to unterseebooten.  Two hundred gallons of fuel available

here.  Will be on the look-out for signals at 1 a.m."

The message was a "general call" for a secret petrol depot to any

German submarine operating in the vicinity.  Reference to the list of

stations showed that "41" was at Port Treherne, a remote cove on the

North Cornish coast about fifty miles from St. Mena's Island.

"I suppose it's safe," remarked Rix.

"With due precautions--yes," rejoined Kapitan Schwalbe.  "At any rate,

petrol we must have.  Where's the chart?  Ah, there we are!  It looks a

fairly easy place to approach, don't you think?  The only danger from a

navigation point is apparently this ledge of rocks--Lost Chance Reef,

it's called.  What unpleasant names these Englishmen give to their

coasts!"

At that moment the Unter-leutnant, who happened to be at the

conning-tower periscope, reported that a large vessel was bearing down

towards them.

Kapitan Schwalbe hurried to the conning-tower.  The object depicted was

that of a modern tank-vessel about four hundred feet in length.  She

was low in the water, showing that she was well laden.  In place of

masts she had four stumpy poles supporting derricks.  Right aft was the

single funnel.  The navigation bridge was well for'ard, connected with

another bridge just in front of the funnel by a long slender gangway.

"An oil-tank homeward bound!" exclaimed Kapitan Schwalbe.  "Just what

we want to fall in with.  All being well, there will be no necessity to

visit either Port Treherne or St. Mena's Island.  Ach!  When we have

taken what we require we will set fire to the ship, and the English

will have a splendid view of a maritime bonfire."

The crew were ordered to their stations, the ballast tanks "blown", and

U75 rose to the surface instead of "running awash", since the Kapitan

had resolved to stop the tank by gun-fire.

Even then the waves were running so high that the guns' crews were

almost constantly up to their knees in water.

Somewhat to the surprise of the submarine's officers and crew, the

tank-steamer made no attempt to escape.  The firing of a shot across

her bows and the display of the black cross ensign were enough to cause

the skipper to reverse her engines.

In less than five minutes, the oil-vessel was rolling in the trough of

the sea and drifting slowly to leeward.  Yet it was a somewhat

remarkable circumstance that no attempt was made to lower the red

ensign that was proudly displayed at the stern.

Kapitan Schwalbe, with his intimate knowledge of navigation, knew that

the only way possible to board the prize was to run to leeward of her,

and let the hull of the large vessel serve as a breakwater.  He also

knew that the submarine would have to be constantly under way during

the boarding operations, otherwise the tank-vessel, offering

considerable resistance to the wind, would drift down upon U75, whose

leeway was almost unappreciable.

"Send a boat, and lower your accommodation ladder," ordered Kapitan

Schwalbe, who, as the submarine ranged up half a cable's length to

leeward of the tank-vessel, had left the shelter of the conning-tower

and was standing on the platform in its wake.

"Aye, aye," was the prompt response.

"Board her, Herr Rix," said the Leutnant's superior officer.  "Bring

back her papers with you.  Order them to pump heavy oil both to

windward and leeward.  We will then be able to run close alongside and

receive her hoses."

A boat containing two seamen and an apprentice was lowered from the

tank's quarter and rowed to the submarine.  Into it dropped Leutnant

Rix and half a dozen armed men.  With them they took two incendiary

bombs fitted with time-fuses.

Rix smiled grimly as he gained the oil-steamer's deck.  The captain and

first mate were at the head of the accommodation ladder to receive him.

Most of the crew were already mustering on deck, each with a bundle

containing his private effects.

"You prize to German boat," announced the Leutnant.  "Make you no

trouble and we you will not harm.  First we will haf much

oil--petroleum, is it not?  Order your engineer to get steam to

donkey-engine, and your men--the--the----  Hein!  Ach, I haf it--the

hoses to get ready.  When we fill up, then twenty minutes we give you

to clear out.  You onderstan'?"

"Perfectly," replied the British skipper, a tall, raw-boned Scot, as he

eyed the podgy German Leutnant with grim contempt.  "But d'ye ken yon?"

 "'D'YE KEN YON?' ASKED THE BRITISH SKIPPER, AS HE EYED

THE PODGY GERMAN LEUTNANT WITH CONTEMPT"

He pointed skywards.  Less than five hundred feet up, yet sufficiently

far from the tank-vessel to enable the latter to screen her from the

unterseeboot, was a large naval sea-plane.  It was to deaden the noise

of her motors that the ship's steam-pipe was continually blowing off

steam from the time that U75 made her peremptory demand.

The eyes of the Leutnant and his six men followed the direction

indicated by the British skipper's outstretched hand.

At that instant the sea-plane was visible above the towering sides of

the British vessel.

U75 was still forging slowly ahead.  In a trice Kapitan Schwalbe

decided how to act.  Ordering the men on deck to their diving stations,

he dropped agilely into the conning-tower and gave the word for the

helm to be ported.

Thus, while the quick-firers were being housed, the submarine had drawn

close under the oil-tank's quarter.  Here she was comparatively safe

from the sea-plane, as the latter could not drop any bombs without risk

of exploding the highly inflammable cargo of the British vessel.

In ten seconds the sea-plane was over and beyond her quarry.  She had

then to turn and circle overhead, awaiting the chance of shattering her

enemy as she dived.

U75 was already disappearing beneath the waves.

She dived at a very oblique angle, steeper than she had ever done

before.

Ross and Vernon, unaware of what was taking place, thought for a moment

that the submarine was plunging headlong to the bed of the Bristol

Channel.  They had to cling desperately to the nearest object to hand

to prevent themselves from sliding violently against a transverse

bulkhead.

Even as they clung they heard two muffled detonations in quick

succession, followed by a distinct quiver of the submarine's hull--a

movement that bore a marked difference to the vibrations under the

pulsations of the motors.

The sea-plane had dropped two bombs, both of which very nearly attained

their object.

Kapitan Schwalbe did not bring the submarine to a horizontal position

until she had reached a depth of fifteen fathoms.  At that depth he was

safe, both from explosives dropped from the sea-plane and also from

observation.  The water being still agitated, made it impossible for

the observer on the biplane to follow the movements of a dark shadow

fathoms deep.  For once, the rough seas had been kind to U75; but the

fact remained that she was still badly in want of fuel, while his last

attempt had resulted in the loss of an officer and six men, who could

not well be spared.

Although the sea-plane had failed to achieve her object by pulverizing

the U-boat's hull, the moral and material result was none the less

effective.

The explosion of the bombs had started several of U75's plates.

Numerous jets of water were spurting through the seams, the inrush

requiring all the mechanical appliances at the command of the modern

pirate to keep the leaks under control, while the badly-jarred nerves

of Kapitan Schwalbe and his crew warned them of the grave risks they

ran in attempting to try conclusions with even an apparently harmless

craft displaying the Red Ensign of Britain's Mercantile Marine.

CHAPTER IX

The Landing at Port Treherne

"I wonder if they'll let us go on deck," remarked Vernon Haye.  "If so,

I vote we have a shot at getting ashore.  What sort of show is Port

Treherne?"

"I know it fairly well," replied Ross.  "It's the most forsaken crib

you are ever likely to meet along the coast.  It's a deep gully in the

cliffs.  There's only one small landing-place--a flat rock.  Years ago

there used to be a tramway down to the rock, and they shipped copper

ore by means of derricks into lighters, which were towed across in fine

weather to Swansea.  But the mine closed down, the village is now

deserted, and I don't believe there are any fishermen there.  They say

that the stream that flows into the port is still heavily charged with

mundic.  At all events the water is of a bright-red colour for several

hundred yards from shore, and no fish will stick that."

It was close on the midnight following the disastrous attempt on the

part of U75 to capture the oil-tank.  The submarine was running awash,

proceeding very slowly and cautiously towards Port Treherne--Station 41

of the secret petrol depots established by German agents along the

coast of the British Islands.

The lads had been informed of the destination of the submarine, but had

not been told why.  Nevertheless it was an easy conjecture that U75 was

going there to pick up stores that she had been unable to obtain in

sufficient quantities at St. Mena's Island.

The Unter-leutnant was in charge of the submarine.  Kapitan Schwalbe

had taken the advantage of the opportunity of a few hours' sleep.

Under-officered and undermanned, the strain on the personnel was a

severe one.  It was only on rare occasions that Schwalbe could in

future descend from his post in the conning-tower.

At midnight, according to custom, the submarine called up her consorts

by wireless.  Judging by the previous attempt it seemed a useless task,

but to the Operator's surprise he received a reply from U77, which was

then lying off the Scillies.

Kapitan Schwalbe, aroused from his sleep, eagerly awaited the decoding

of the message.  It was to the effect that the commander of U77 had

received information that H.M.S. _Tremendous_, one of the earlier

Dreadnoughts, was leaving Gibraltar for Rosyth.  The _Tremendous_, he

knew, had been engaged in the Dardanelles operations.  U77 therefore

suggested that the two unterseebooten should meet at a rendezvous off

The Lizard, and attempt a _coup de main_, the success of which would go

towards atoning for the blunders and losses sustained by the German

submarines in their endeavour to blockade the British Isles.

"Good!" exclaimed Kapitan Schwalbe.  "Tell them that I purpose to

rendezvous twenty kilometres S.W. by W. of The Lizard, on Thursday at

10 p.m.  I am now about to take in fuel.  Will communicate again at

noon to-morrow.  Ask them if they have picked up a wireless from U74."

Some time elapsed before the message could be coded by the sender and

translated by the receiving submarine.  When the reply confirming the

rendezvous was received, a message was added to the effect that U77 had

heard nothing of U74 for three days.  It was presumed, however, that

she was now on her way back to Wilhelmshaven, and was already out of

wireless range.

Kapitan Schwalbe knew better.  As senior officer of the three

submarines detached to operate in these waters, he was aware that U74

would not have left her station without orders from him.  That part of

the message had been sent merely as a "blind", so that the crews of the

remaining unterseebooten should not be discouraged.  It was safe to

conclude, decided Kapitan Schwalbe, that another of the blockaders had

gone to the bottom for the last time.

It was close on one o'clock when the "wirelessing" terminated.  U75,

which had hitherto been running awash, was now trimmed for surface work.

Most of the crew went on deck.  Amongst them were Ross and Vernon, no

one offering any objection.

The sea was no longer rough.  A long oily swell took the place of the

white-crested wave.  The night was dark.  Only a few stars were

visible.  Away to the S.E., the black outlines of the Cornish coast

reared themselves like an enormous wall against the gloomy sky.

Suddenly Vernon touched his chum's elbow, as a faint pin-prick of light

glimmered twice.  It was the shore agent's signal that the coast was

clear.

Barely carrying steerage-way, U75 stood in towards the as yet invisible

Port Treherne.  Already her crew had brought the collapsible canvas

boat from below, "man-handling" it through the fore hatch.  The men,

having opened it out and shipped the felt-lined and well-greased

rowlocks, stood by to launch it.

Gradually the towering cliffs enclosing the creek became

distinguishable against the loftier background of gaunt hills.  Into

the gap the submarine crept with the utmost caution, until it seemed as

if she were on the point of running her nose against the sheer face of

the granite wall.  The water bubbled slightly as her motors were

reversed; then, turning in her own length, she brought up, with her

bows pointing seawards.

Three of the crew grasped the canvas boat and pushed it gently into the

water on the port side.  One of them clambered in and shipped the oars

in the row-locks.

The two lads were cautiously scanning the shores of the inlet.  Ross

could sniff the unmistakable Cornish air.  The call of home seemed

irresistible.  It looked a comparatively easy matter to slip quietly

over the starboard side, and swim with noiseless strokes towards the

weed-covered rocks that showed six feet or more above the sea.  It was

half ebb-tide; there was little or no drift out of the cove.  Under the

shadow of those dark cliffs detection seemed almost impossible, unless

the submarine went to the risky expedient of switching on her

search-light.

They moved stealthily towards the light wire railing on the starboard

side just abaft the conning-tower.  Everything seemed in their favour.

Kapitan Schwalbe and the Unter-leutnant were on the navigation

platform, peering through their night-glasses towards the flat rock

that served as a landing-place.  Two of the seamen were engaged in

coiling down a hand-lead line; the rest of the men on deck were

devoting their attention to the now departing canvas boat.

"Not so fast, my friends," exclaimed a low deep voice, which the lads

recognized as that of Kapitan Schwalbe.  "Remember I have a pistol

ready to hand."

"How in the name of goodness did he know what we were up to?" thought

Ross.

The chums stood stock-still.  They felt much like children found out in

some petty escapade.

"Koppe!  Where are you?" asked the Kapitan in a loud whisper.

"Here, sir," replied the seaman.

"I hold you responsible for these Englishmen.  Now they are trying to

give us the slip.  Take them below.  But hold on.  Secure them to a

stanchion.  Chain them up, and bring me the key."

The seaman approached the lads almost apologetically, and led them to

the port side just for'ard of the conning-tower.  A light steel chain

was hitched round Ross's right ankle and Vernon's left, and deftly

padlocked round one of the uprights supporting the hand-rail.

"It is of no use trying any of your pranks here," commented Kapitan

Schwalbe, still in a low tone.  "You are only looking for trouble."

For several moments all was still, save for the screech of a benighted

gull.  Overhead a meteor passed swiftly across the sky, throwing a pale

gleam upon-the lurking submarine.

"Wer da?"

The words, although uttered in an undertone, travelled distinctly over

the placid waters of the cove.

The sailor in the boat muttered some inaudible reply.  The listeners in

the submarine could detect the sound of his oars as he laid them across

the thwarts.  Then, after further conversation, could be heard the

rumble of metal as the tins of petrol were rapidly placed in the boat.

"How many are there?" asked Kapitan Schwalbe eagerly as the men

returned with the first load.

"Forty here, Herr Kapitan.  Altogether there are over two hundred."

"Then be sharp and whip them on board.  Was there any communication for

me?"

"A bundle of English newspapers, sir, and this letter."

The man drew the documents from the inside of his jumper and passed

them to a seaman, who in turn handed them to the skipper.

"I may have to land, sir," continued the seaman.  "The rest of the cans

are in a cove at some distance from the landing-place.  Can Max go with

me to mind the boat?  There is a slight ground-swell at times, and she

might have a hole through her canvas if she is allowed to grind against

the rocks."

Receiving an affirmative reply, the man told his comrade to get on

board, and once more the boat vanished into the darkness.

Another twenty minutes elapsed, then came the sounds of muffled

footsteps, and of volatile spirit surging inside the petrol cans.  Then

one of the men must have slipped, for there was a slight scuffling,

followed by the loud crash of a can clattering over the rocks.

"'Alt!  Who goes there?" shouted a hoarse and unmistakably English

voice.

"Freund," promptly replied the German sailor.

It would have been far wiser on his part if he had waited for his

fellow-worker, the German agent, to reply, since his knowledge and

pronunciation of English were almost perfect.  But unfortunately it was

the spy who had fallen, and, half-winded by coming in contact with one

of the tins, was gasping for breath and at the same time rubbing a

barked shin.

"Not good enough for me, old sport," rejoined the challenger, and

without further ado he let loose "five rounds rapid".

A loud yell announced that one of the bullets had at least taken

effect.  It was the prostrate spy who received a dose of nickel through

the fleshy part of his thigh.

The seaman, dropping his cans, fled for his life.  Recklessly he leapt

from the landing-place into the canvas boat, which his comrade had been

keeping at oar's length from the shore.  The sudden impetus was too

much for the frail craft.  She capsized, and, being only

single-skinned, sank like a stone.

Already men, members of a picket, were hastening to the sentry's

support, their progress marked by a lantern held by a stout and sleepy

sergeant.

By this time U75 was making for the open sea.  Kapitan Schwalbe was

cursing loudly; not because the luckless agent had been hit--it was his

fault for not making sure of his ground; not so much on account of the

loss of two more men, nor of the sinking of the only boat belonging to

the submarine.  His anger was aroused at the knowledge that once again

his efforts to obtain fuel had been balked.  The quantity contained in

forty tins was a mere fraction of the amount he required in order to

carry out his ambitious programme.  Bitterly he realized that, like

those of transgressors, the ways of modern pirates are hard.

CHAPTER X

A Treacherous Plot

A ragged volley of musketry followed the departing submarine.  One

bullet mushroomed itself against the steel conning-tower; another

zipped through one of the guard-rails.  The rest either flew harmlessly

overhead or ricochetted from the surface of the placid water.

Nevertheless the firing was a signal for the crew to hasten below.

Kapitan Schwalbe and the Unter-leutnant disappeared with ignominious

speed within the conning-tower.  The men, bending low, bolted for the

fore hatch.  In twenty seconds the deck of U75 was deserted save for

Ross and Vernon, who, padlocked to the stanchion, were unable to move

six inches in either direction.  They were only partly screened by the

rise of the conning-tower.  A sharp splinter from the bullet that had

splayed against the steel wall cut cleanly through Vernon's coat sleeve

and inflicted a slight gash in the lad's forearm, yet in the excitement

he hardly noticed it.

"I say, old man," exclaimed Ross, as a wave slapping against the

submarine's bow threw a shower of spray over the two prisoners.  "What

will happen if they submerge?  It seems to me as if old Schwalbe has

forgotten us."

"He would have dived before this if he intended so doing," replied

Haye.  "Ten to one he's going to pay us out for attempting to take

French, or rather German, leave.  It's jolly cold and mighty

uncomfortable, but we'll keep a stiff upper lip and show him what we

are made of."

"With all due deference to you, old chap," rejoined Trefusis, his teeth

chattering as the keen wind played upon his saturated garments, "I

would far rather be without this badge of German kultur."  He indicated

the chain that encircled his ankle.  "I don't think that you can hold a

brief for Kapitan Schwalbe.  I am not so sure about it that he is not

going to dive."

U75 dipped as he spoke, submerging her fore deck almost to the base of

the conning-tower.  Then, with a double cascade of water pouring from

her, she shook herself free, throwing her bows high above the surface.

A man, gripping the stanchion-rail as he made his way knee-deep in

water, came towards the two prisoners.  It was Hans Koppe.  He had

obtained the Kapitan's permission to release his charges from their

uncomfortable position.

"Hold on tightly as you go aft," he cautioned.  "There is hot coffee

waiting for you below."

It was impracticable to descend by means of the fore hatch.  That means

of communication had already been closed and battened down, owing to

the constant flow of water over the bows.  Even the after hatch, in

spite of the protection afforded by the conning-tower and the raised

coaming, was admitting water into the interior of the submarine.

Cold, exhausted, and hungry, the lads were glad to be able to eat and

drink, discard their wringing-wet garments, and turn in.  Without

waking they slept solidly for ten hours.  It was one in the afternoon

when they turned out.  U75 was rounding Land's End.  She was submerged,

steering a compass course, but frequently showing her periscope to

ascertain her whereabouts.  Already the Longships Lighthouse was broad

on the port beam.

It was a tedious, discomforting run from Land's End to The Lizard.  The

Mounts Bay fishing fleets were out, a circumstance that compelled the

submarine to keep below the surface.  Kapitan Schwalbe knew that once

the alert skippers of these boats sighted even the tip of the

periscope, the news of the presence of a hostile submarine would be

quickly sent to the naval authorities at Devonport.  The necessity for

secrecy also prevented him from making use of the wireless: not that

the message would be deciphered, but because the origin of the message

could be fixed with comparative certainty by any of the British

wireless stations that "picked up" her call.

The approaches to Plymouth Sound, too, gave Kapitan Schwalbe a bad

time.  Far beyond the Eddystone, and from Looe Island to Bigbury Bay,

armed trawlers and torpedo-boats patrolled incessantly, their movements

aided by sea-planes.  It was almost a matter of impossibility for a

hostile submarine to approach Plymouth Sound by daylight, since the

aeroplanes were able to discern any sinister object moving under the

comparatively shallow and clear waters between Rame Head and Stoke

Point; while at night the precautions taken were of such an elaborate

and efficient description as to seal the fate of any submarine rash

enough to run her head into a noose.

Accordingly U75 gave the Eddystone a wide berth, shaping a course to

pass twenty miles to the south'ard of the far-famed lighthouse.  Here

she was in the thick of the Channel traffic, a stream of mercantile

ships passing up and down as unconcernedly as if such a thing as a

German submarine did not exist.

Although there were plenty of opportunities, Kapitan Schwalbe made no

attempt to molest the ships.  For one thing, experience had taught him

that the British merchant skipper possessed a bull-dog tenacity, and a

courage not to be daunted by the sight of a hostile periscope appearing

from nowhere in the midst of a waste of water.  For another, he was now

on the look-out for more important game--his chance to retrieve his

already vanishing prestige.

However, one of the merchant vessels served him a good purpose,

although unknown to her.  Marking a large ocean tramp bound up-Channel,

U75 dived deeply, so as to be free from any danger of being hit by her

forefoot.

With the noise of the tramp's propeller to guide her, U75 followed,

unsuspected, in her wake as she made for the Lizard Light.

Arriving safely at the rendezvous, Kapitan Schwalbe waited until it was

dark, and then cautiously brought the submarine awash.  Punctually at

ten o'clock a feeble violet light blinked through the night.  It was

U77's call to her consort.

"What's the game, I wonder?" asked Vernon, as a hail in German was

borne faintly to their ears.

The chums had turned in.  There was nothing else for them to do, since

they had been ordered to leave the quarters allotted to the crew.  As

there was no furniture of any description in the alley-way that had

been made their sleeping compartment, they had climbed into their

bunks.  Here they could maintain an almost uninterrupted conversation.

"Hist!" exclaimed Ross warningly.  He had been lying with his ear

almost touching one of the many voice-tubes that led from the

conning-tower to various parts of the submarine.  Quite by accident, he

discovered that the pipes formed an excellent conductor of sound in a

manner that had not been intended.

"What are you doing?" asked Haye curiously.

"Jam your ear against the centre one of these three pipes," said his

chum.

Vernon did so.  It required very little movement on his part, since the

bunks were rather narrow.  The same voice-tube that Ross was "tapping"

ran vertically past Haye's bunk, which was immediately underneath the

one Trefusis had appropriated from the time when he had been laid upon

it under the influence of the injection.

This particular pipe formed a means of vocal communication between the

conning-tower and Kapitan Schwalbe's cabin.  For some reason the

whistle had been removed from the cabin end, and consequently sounds

from the Kapitan's quarters were conveyed with tolerable clearness.

There were two men engaged in conversation.  One was Kapitan Schwalbe;

the other, who spoke in a lower key, and so rapidly that Ross had great

difficulty in mentally translating his words, was the

Lieutenant-Commander of U77.  He had been put aboard U75 only a few

minutes previously.

"My dear von Hoffner," Kapitan Schwalbe was saying.  "Your plan is all

very well as far as you are concerned; but where do we come in?

Understand that while we are on the surface our risks are increased

ten-fold.  Suppose, for instance, the battleship does not notice, or

affects not to notice, the white flag?"

"She will, right enough," assured the Lieutenant-Commander of U77.

"These English are such fools that in their anxiety to observe the

rules of warfare" (here von Hoffner laughed sardonically) "they play

into our hands.  More than a twelvemonth of war has not taught them

that the hitherto recognized observances of war are no longer binding.

This is not a petty squabble between two nations.  It is a struggle for

existence; consequently it is where our frightfulness scores."

"It hasn't up to the present, according to my experience," objected

Kapitan Schwalbe gloomily.  "These Englishmen simply won't be

frightened.  But to return once more to the point: what steps do you

propose to take to minimize my risk?"

"There must be risk, of course," remarked von Hoffner.  "According to

latest reports, it seems pretty certain that we cannot hope to

intercept the _Tremendous_ during the hours of darkness.  Consequently

we have to make use of a ruse.  Directly I spot her I dive, keeping as

much as possible close to her track, say three hundred metres off."

"Yes, you dive," commented Schwalbe caustically.  "That is quite

feasible.  But what of U75?"

"She will keep on the surface almost exactly in the indicated path of

the battleship.  You will strike your ensign and hoist a large white

flag in its place.  It will mean scrapping your best tablecloth, mein

herr.  With the wind in its present quarter the flag will blow athwart

the battleship's course, so there is no risk of it not being seen.  You

and your crew will, of course, form up aft.  That will give more colour

to the deception."

"Perhaps it will work," said Kapitan Schwalbe.

"Perhaps?  Of course it will," declared von Hoffher sanguinely.  "Then

the rest is child's play.  Directly the _Tremendous_ slows down--it's

the speed of these battleships that has caused us to miss hitherto--I

will let loose two torpedoes.  There will be no bungling, I assure you.

I'll take good care to hit her close to the magazine, and there will be

no opportunity for her to use her quick-firers.

"By the by, I've two English boys on board," said the Kapitan of U75.

In a few words he related the circumstances in which they were made

prisoners.  "I suppose they ought to line up on deck with the hands?"

"Certainly," replied von Hoffher, with one of his cold-blooded

sniggers.  "It will heighten the illusion.  It will do them good to see

what one of our unterseebooten can do.  But it is highly important that

there be no survivors from the torpedoed battleship.  The ruse is a

grand one, and can be employed over and over again, provided that the

secret does not leak out.  After all, I don't think I would bring these

English youths on deck."

"They are safe enough," protested Schwalbe.  "If we return to

Wilhelmshaven, they will be locked up in safe custody until the end of

the war.  If we do not, then I fancy there will be no survivors from

U75 as well as from the English battleship _Tremendous_."

The two treacherous officers conversed in a similar strain for several

minutes longer.  Then came the sound of glasses being clinked as an

accompaniment to a boastful toast.  Talking boisterously, the two

officers left the cabin, and presently the lads heard the sound of oars

as von Hoffner was rowed back to his command.

CHAPTER XI

Preparations

"The brutes!" ejaculated Vernon savagely.  He was violently excited.

Perspiration was pouring off his face at the thought of the almost

unparalleled act of wanton treachery that was about to be enacted.  "If

we could only prevent them!"

"I can't see how," rejoined Ross gloomily.  "We cannot give an alarm.

If we could control the valves for half a minute, I'd sink this blessed

craft with all on board, myself included, for good and all.  But it is

no use talking of the impossibly heroic."

"I have a plan," announced Vernon, after thinking deeply for a few

minutes.

"Well, out with it!"

"We have to pass through one of the broadside torpedo-rooms as we go on

deck.  We could each snatch a spanner and give the war-heads a terrific

blow.  You'll remember that there are half a dozen torpedoes in the

cages against the bulkhead.  It would mean certain death for us, but it

would save nearly a thousand lives."

Ross shook his head.

"There's no certainty of success," he objected.  "Those torpedoes are

very much like our own Whiteheads.  The striker in the head is

protected against accidental discharge by a small propeller.  Until the

torpedo travels a certain distance through the water--sufficient for

the resistance against the blades to cause the safety device to

unthread and leave the striker free to hit the primer--the danger of

premature explosion is almost negligible.  We shouldn't have time to

revolve the safety blades enough, and I'm pretty certain that even a

heavy blow on the war-head itself would not explode the charge."

"Then I'm done," said Vernon dejectedly.  "Think of something, old

man--something that will hold water."

Silence ensued for nearly ten minutes, broken only by the tapping of

the waves against the sides of the submarine, and the gentle purr of

the dynamos for supplying light to the interior of the vessel.

Suddenly Ross leapt out of his bunk.  He dared not trust himself to

speak above a whisper for fear of being overheard.

"Dash it all, old man!" exclaimed Vernon, when his chum had confided

his plans; "it ought to work.  If it doesn't, nothing else will.  I'm

on it, happen what may!"

"We'll want our knives for the job," continued Ross.  "Yours will open

easily, I hope?  Good!  Sharp?  We'll run no risks.  A sharp blade is

absolutely necessary."

They drew the knives and whetted the blades upon the soles of their

boots.  At Vernon's suggestion they kept open the big blades, making a

hole through the lining of their pockets in order to keep the knives in

a horizontal position and ready to hand.

"Now let's turn in properly," suggested the practical Ross.  "We want

to be fairly fresh for the job in front of us."

Soon after sunrise on the morrow all hands were mustered aft on deck,

Ross and Vernon included.  It was a bright morning.  The sun had risen

seemingly out of the sea, or in nautical parlance it was a "low dawn".

There was a chilliness in the air that made the lads wish that they had

been wearing overcoats.

They looked in vain for U75's consort.  The unterseeboot that was to

deal the coward's blow was not to be seen.  Her presence was to be kept

a secret from the crew of the decoy.

Kapitan Schwalbe, accompanied by his Unter-leutnant, made his way aft.

He looked pale and care-worn.  He had lost his military manner.  His

gait suggested that of a man recovering from a long illness.

"My men," he exclaimed, "circumstances over which I have no control

make it necessary to bring our cruise to a speedy termination.  U75 is

no longer in a state of efficiency, either for offence or flight.  It

therefore remains for us to save our lives by surrendering to the first

English ship of war that we fall in with.  It is a humiliating and

distasteful step to take, but there is no option."

The crew heard this lying speech in silence.  They hardly knew what to

make of it.  The majority mentally decided that it was better to be

imprisoned in England than to rot on the bed of the sea.  Kapitan

Schwalbe had no faith in his men's histrionic abilities; he was also

afraid that they would oppose the scheme that he himself had deprecated

as being too risky.

Hiding their indignation, Ross and his chum saw the Kapitan hand a

petty officer a white flag.  The man took it, and lashed short pieces

of cord to two adjacent corners.

Hans Koppe sidled up to his charges.

"You will soon be free," he remarked.  "Ach! but you do not seem

overjoyed.  You English are indeed a queer race."

Receiving no reply, the man went below to follow the example of his

comrades, who were getting together their personal belongings.  Many of

them thought of the times when they had seen non-belligerents do

likewise.  It was the boot on the other foot with a vengeance.

Ross gave another glance across the horizon.  Nothing was in sight.

Gripping his chum's arm, he led him for'ard.  U75 was motionless.  The

deck was deserted.  A quartermaster stood on the navigation platform in

front of the conning-tower.  Kapitan Schwalbe and his Unter-leutnant

had likewise vanished.

As Ross passed the conning-tower, he pulled out his knife and deftly

severed the lashings of a couple of buoys secured to the hand-rail.  It

was the first act of the lad's plan of operations.

"Vessel on the port bow, sir!" shouted the quartermaster.

Kapitan Schwalbe was on deck in a trice, closely followed by his

subordinate.  For a few moments, he kept his binoculars focused upon

the indistinct grey object, then three miles off.

"It is the _Tremendous_," he announced in an undertone to the

Unter-leutnant.  "Another ten minutes will see the business through."

He spoke with confidence, but it was a confidence inspired by a liberal

dose of brandy.  He felt that he had already passed the Rubicon.  There

could be no turning back.

A whistle trilled shrilly.  At the signal the men again doubled aft,

and joined up in a double line.

"Where are the English boys?" enquired Kapitan Schwalbe.

"Coming," replied Ross.  For the first time on board he omitted to add

the word "sir".  His omission was deliberate.  Utter contempt for the

German captain consumed him.  Schwalbe, too, noticed the manner in

which he had replied.  He smiled grimly, imagining that now the lads

thought themselves about to be free they could afford to be curt.

As the chums passed the lifebuoys, they deftly heaved them overboard.

They fell with hardly a splash, dropping close to the side of the

motionless submarine.

No one noticed the act.  The attention of the crew was centred upon a

little ceremony that was taking place.  Bareheaded, the men stood at

attention.  Their voices broke into the song of "Die Wacht am Rhein" as

the emblem of German sea-power was slowly lowered from the ensign staff.

The men sang sonorously and in perfect cadence.  They firmly believed

that it was their last tribute as free men to their Fatherland.  As the

last bar terminated, the petty officer smartly hoisted the white flag.

For an instant it hung limply, confined by one of the halliards; then

like a square of stretched canvas it blew out in the steady breeze--a

modern counterpart of the kiss of Judas.

And standing just behind the Kapitan, within arm's reach of the ensign

staff, were Ross Trefusis and Vernon Haye.

CHAPTER XII

The White Flag--and Afterwards

H.M.S. _Tremendous_, super-Dreadnought of 24,000 tons displacement, and

mounting ten 13.5-inch guns as her principal armament, was tearing

up-Channel at 21 knots.

She looked far different from the spick-and-span battleship which had

left Portsmouth only six weeks previously.

Her armoured sides still showed unmistakable traces of the impact of

Turkish shells.  Her grey paint was blotched, blistered, and stained.

Her after funnel had plates of sheet-iron riveted to it to hide a

gaping hole large enough to drive a stage-coach through.  Her guns were

worn out by sheer hard work.  It was mainly on this account that she

was homeward bound: to have the gigantic weapons "re-lined" in order

that she might again take her place as an effective unit of the Grand

Fleet.

The middle watch was about to relieve the morning watch.  The mess

decks were a seething mass of humanity.  In spite of the apparent

confusion everyone was in high good humour, for another few hours

(D.V.) would find H.M.S. _Tremendous_ at Pompey--as Portsmouth has from

time immemorial been termed by the Navy.

On the fire-control platform sleepy-eyed officers were awaiting their

reliefs.  Around the 12-pounders, the muzzles of which grinned

menacingly from apparently haphazard positions in the superstructure,

men were grouped, ready at the first alarm to train the weapons upon a

possible foe.  Day after day ceaseless vigilance was maintained.  One

and all realized that a moment's negligence might result in destruction

by one of the most horrible creations of modern science.

"Submarine on the starboard bow, sir!"

For an instant all was tense silence.  Then a bugle blared, followed by

the clear trills of the bos'n's mates' pipes and the hurried tramp of

men's feet.

The officer of the watch brought his telescope to bear ahead.  He was a

junior lieutenant, Bourne by name, and in receipt of a private income

of eight hundred a year.  On that sum he might have lived the life of a

man of leisure, but he vastly preferred a strenuous life as a

commissioned officer in the Royal Navy.  Not once had he regretted his

choice, and upon the outbreak of war he was ready to execute a hornpipe

of sheer delight at the prospect of "being in the big scrap".

"She's flying the white flag, by Jove!" he ejaculated.  "Funny,

deucedly funny!"

He had to act, and act promptly, for a battleship travelling at 21

knots does not give a man time to think for any length of time.

Already a messenger had been despatched to inform the "skipper", but

before the captain could gain the navigation bridge (more than likely

he was in his bath) the _Tremendous_ would have covered the intervening

distance.

The quartermaster looked enquiringly at the Lieutenant.  Bourne stepped

hastily to the engine-room telegraph indicator, half inclined to ring

down for "half-speed", or even "stop both engines".

He stopped abruptly.

"Steady on your helm, quartermaster."

"Steady it is, sir," replied the petty officer.

The telegraph indicator remained untouched.  With undiminished speed

H.M.S.  _Tremendous_ held on, under the propelling force of turbine

engines of 30,000 indicated horse-power.

A midshipman, standing by the side of the officer of the watch, had

been keeping the submarine under observation by means of his telescope.

"By Jove, sir!" he exclaimed.  "There's something wrong there.  The

white flag's down, and two fellows in mufti have leapt overboard."

"Torpedo on the port bow, sir!" sang out half a dozen lusty voices in

chorus.

"Hard-a-port, quartermaster!" ordered Bourne.

The spokes of the steam steering-gear revolved quicker than they had

ever done before.  Listing heavily to port, the _Tremendous_ turned

with a rapidity that belied her huge bulk and apparent unhandiness.  A

double track of ever-diverging foam marked the progress of the deadly

missile.  Another followed almost in its wake, both torpedoes

travelling at the speed of an express train.

For four seconds all on board who watched these messages of death stood

with bated breath.  Then a general roar of relief went up as the two

"tinfish" glided harmlessly past the ship, the nearest at a distance of

less than twenty feet, and parallel to the new course of the battleship.

Half a dozen quick-firers spat viciously.  A 6-inch, two of which for

some obscure reason the designers had placed on the main deck abreast

of the after 15-inch guns, added to the din.  A chaos of smoke, flame,

and spray marked the spot beneath which U77 had lurked to launch her

cowardly and treacherous bolt.

"That's blinded her, at least," thought Bourne.

He knew that even if the hidden submarine had escaped injury, a minute

at least would elapse before she could be conned into a position to

discharge another torpedo.  That minute would be enough for his purpose.

"Starboard!" he ordered.  "Ram her, quartermaster!"

Round swung the 24,000 tons of dead weight, steadied, and bore down

upon the motionless U75.  Cries of terror burst from the doomed crew,

many of whom leapt overboard in a vain attempt to swim clear of the

vengeful leviathan.

Bourne gripped the guard-rail, half expecting to be thrown violently by

the force of the impact.  He was mistaken.

With hardly a tremor the bows of the _Tremendous_ crashed into the

unterseeboot, hitting her just abaft the conning-tower.  The bow

portion sank like a stone.  The after part reared itself high in the

air, revealing the curiously shaped stern, the two propellers, and the

complication of rudders.  Then, before the cloud of smoke and spray had

time to drift inboard, the _Tremendous_ was over and beyond the

ever-widening circle of iridescent oil that marked the ocean grave of

yet another of the would-be blockaders of Britain's shores.

Even in the midst of his great responsibility Bourne's keen eye

discerned two heads bobbing up and down in the water.  The midshipman

noticed them too.

"They are those fellows who hauled down the white flag, sir," he

exclaimed.  "They are quite youngsters, too, and we daren't stop."

"No, we dare not," agreed the Lieutenant.  For aught he knew, another

unterseeboot might be in the vicinity, reserving her torpedoes in the

hope that the battleship would slow down to investigate.  "Pass the

word to the sentry to let go the Kisbie.  It's the best we can do."

With a splash the patent lifebuoy was dropped from the cage at the

extremity of the navigation-bridge.  It bobbed up again under the

battleship's quarter, emitting a dense cloud of calcium smoke as it did

so.  By the time the marine had dropped the Kisbie the ship was a

quarter of a mile away from the two swimmers.

"It's the best we can do," repeated Bourne as he closed the eyepiece of

his telescope.  "They may fetch it, they are swimming strongly."

"Well done, Mr. Bourne!" exclaimed a deep voice.

Turning, the Lieutenant faced the Captain standing beside him.

"A smart manoeuvre!" continued the skipper approvingly.  "We can now

only carry on; but we'll wireless the Commander-in-Chief Devonport, and

report that there are survivors from the rammed submarine.  He'll have

a destroyer patrol on the spot within an hour, and I hope it won't be

too late."

Bourne stepped to the extremity of the bridge and glanced astern.  His

effort to distinguish the heads of the two swimmers was fruitless, for

a thin haze, the smoke from the ship's funnel, spread far in her wake,

completely obliterating the spot where Ross Trefusis and Vernon Haye

were swimming for dear life.

It will be necessary to set back the hands of the clock in order to

follow the fortunes of Ross and his chum.

"Is she slowing down?" whispered Vernon anxiously, as they stood on the

deck of U75 awaiting the approach of the _Tremendous_.

"I don't think so," replied Ross.  "But now's our time."

The attention of Schwalbe and his crew was centred upon the battleship;

the Kapitan momentarily expecting to see the huge vessel reel under the

impact of the terrible torpedo, while the men began to entertain grave

doubts as to whether the British ship would accept their token of

surrender.  The fact that the super-Dreadnought showed no signs of

slowing down revived Kapitan Schwalbe's doubts.  Knowing the difficulty

of hitting, even at a comparatively short range, a swiftly moving

target, he began to wonder whether he did the right thing in falling in

with von Hoffner's diabolical plan.

His hurried thoughts were suddenly interrupted by some light object

enveloping his head and shoulders.  Before he could tear the fabric

away he heard two distinct splashes, followed by shouts of astonishment

from the crew; for with one clean sweep with his knife Ross had severed

the halliards of the ensign staff.

The lads dived deep, swimming the while with long, powerful strokes,

for both were accomplished in the art of natation.  They were longer in

coming to the surface than they anticipated, owing to the weight of

their half-boots, which they had been unable to remove without risk of

causing suspicion.

When at length their heads emerged almost simultaneously, they found

themselves nearly fifteen yards from the doomed U75.

"Strike out!" spluttered Ross.  "Get as far away from her as you can.

Never mind about old Schwalbe.  He can't hurt us."

Ross was right, for however much the Kapitan wanted to wreak his

vengeance upon his former prisoners, he was unable to do so.  In his

rôle as that of an officer waiting to surrender, the possession of a

revolver would tend to "give the show away".  He had left his pistol in

his cabin--an example that his Unter-leutnant had followed.  And now

his attention was directed upon the British battleship.

Meanwhile, the lads, swimming strongly, saw the _Tremendous_ heel as

she ported helm.  For a minute, not knowing how a ship behaves when the

helm is suddenly put hard over, they thought that the treacherous

unterseeboot had successfully carried out her cold-blooded plan.  Yet

no explosion occurred, and the battleship recovered her normal trim.

With their eyes only a few inches above the surface, the lads could see

nothing of the track of the torpedoes.  They had no indication that

they had been fired until the _Tremendous_ let fly with her 12-pounders.

"I think we've saved her," said Vernon.  "Now there'll be trouble for

us.  Schwalbe will certainly have a shot at recapturing us after the

battleship has cleared off.  Why doesn't she settle U75, I wonder?"

The lads both expressed astonishment that the motionless unterseeboot

had escaped the attention of the super-Dreadnought's quick-firers.  It

seemed as if the latter were ignoring U75 altogether and was sheering

off at full speed.

Suddenly Ross gave a whoop of delight, which ended in his swallowing a

mouthful of salt water.  The _Tremendous_ was turning once more, and

heading straight for the doomed submarine.

 "THE TREMENDOUS WAS HEADING STRAIGHT FOR THE DOOMED

SUBMARINE"

Mentally Ross compared the on-coming battleship with an express train,

as shown on a cinematograph screen, in the act of approaching the

audience.  At one moment the ship was visible from her water-line to

the truck of her top-mast; at the next her bulk had suddenly expanded

and seemed to fill the complete field of vision.  It looked as if the

two lads, in spite of the distance they had put between themselves and

the motionless submarine, would yet be in the way of the vengeful

battleship, whose extreme beam was not less than ninety feet.

Yet neither of the two chums made the slightest effort to swim farther

away.  Mechanically treading water, they waited and watched.

They could see the terror-stricken attitudes of the crew of the doomed

U75.  They heard the shouts of consternation as the massive steel bows

bore down upon her.  Then, in a second it seemed, there was a hideous

crash that outvoiced the yells and shouts of despair as the

unterseeboot was rent in twain.

Of what happened during the next minute the lads had but a very hazy

idea.  Caught by the irresistible bow wave as the _Tremendous_ tore

past, they were hurled aside like feathers and buried a couple of

fathoms down under the breaking, foaming mass of water.  Vaguely they

heard the whirring of the four propellers--very near, it seemed; then,

caught by an eddy caused by the cavitation in the wake of the monstrous

vessel, they were separated and flung to the surface, half-breathless

and dazed.

Ross opened his eyes.  The _Tremendous_ had already covered nearly a

quarter of a mile.  Twenty yards away he saw his chum's head, as

Vernon, puffing like a grampus, was striking out towards him.

Where the submarine had dived for the last time was an ever-widening

circle of oil.  Those of the German crew who had not been carried down

by the sinking unterseeboot were too shaken by the concussion to make

any great effort to save their lives.  Attempting to keep afloat in

that oil-covered water added to their difficulties, for whenever the

head of a swimmer disappeared he did not rise again.

"Kick off your boots, old man," exclaimed Ross.

"Where are the lifebuoys?" asked Vernon as he carried out his friend's

advice.

One buoy had disappeared; the other was supporting a seaman, the only

survivor of the crew.

"A case of finding's are keeping's," announced Ross.  "We can't sling

him out of it.  It might support two people.  We could take turns at

hanging on."

"Stop!" exclaimed Vernon as Ross began to strike out towards the buoy.

"There'll be trouble if we get mixed up in that oil.  It's much lighter

than water.  I doubt whether we could swim in it.  Do you think the

_Tremendous_ will put back?"

"Not likely," replied Trefusis.

He looked in the direction of the fast-vanishing battleship, half

hoping that she would slow down and lower a boat.  As he did so,

something caught his eye: a cloud of grey smoke apparently issuing from

the sea.

"What's that?" he asked, pointing in that direction.

"Torpedo, perhaps; one that has finished her run," suggested Vernon;

but his chum waved aside the explanation.

"If U77 did fire a torpedo, you can bet your bottom dollar it wasn't

one with a dummy head!" he said.  "Only practice torpedoes send up a

calcium light when their compressed air has given out.  By Jove, I

believe it's one of those patent buoys!  Let's make for it."

The lads swam strongly, making powerful and comparatively slow

breast-strokes.  The water was warm.  They were in no immediate danger

of cramp.

As they skirted the patch of oil they noticed that the seaman holding

on to the buoy had turned round.  His face was now in their direction.

The man was Hans Koppe.

"Are you all right, Hans?" shouted Ross.

"Yes, mein herr," replied the man.  "I've found a buoy."

"Thanks to us," thought Trefusis; then raising his voice: "You had

better kick out and get clear of the oil," he advised.  "We are making

for yonder buoy."

By the time the swimmers reached the Kisbie the emission of calcium

smoke had ceased.  They found that not only did the buoy support them

both, but that it was so constructed as to allow them to maintain a

sitting position without having to hold on with both hands.  Glad of a

seat they waited, watching the approach of Hans Koppe, and also looking

for the undesired reappearance of U77.

"Ach!  My wife and children!" exclaimed Hans Koppe disconsolately, as

he brought his lifebuoy close alongside.  "I shall never see them

again."

"Cheer up, Hans!" replied Vernon.  "At any moment U77 might come to the

surface and take you on board.  We don't mind, so long as they let us

alone.  We've had enough of your unterseebooten."

"U77?" gasped the German incredulously.  "How do you know that?"

Briefly Haye related the story of the ill-fated Kapitan Schwalbe's

treachery.  As he proceeded Han's face bore a surprised expression that

presently changed to one of fear.

"If we are picked up by an English ship," he remarked, "they will shoot

me for abuse of the white flag.  And I am innocent.  Ach! my poor wife."

"They won't," replied Ross reassuringly.  "We can swear that you knew

nothing about it."

The minutes passed slowly.  There was no sign of U77.  Little did the

three survivors know that she lay within a quarter of a mile of her

consort, on the bed of the English Channel--to add to the

ever-increasing roll of unterseebooten that were fated never to enter a

German port again.

The sun rose higher and higher, its rays gathering strength as it did

so.  The heads of the three survivors were exposed to the solar heat;

their bodies and limbs were numbed by prolonged immersion.  The desire

for conversation had long since passed.  Almost exhausted they hung to

their supports, listless and torpid.  A few sea-gulls, struck with the

silence of the three men, hovered overhead, and swooped with shrill

cries to settle on the water within close distance of what appeared to

be a possible meal.  One bolder than the rest perched upon Trefusis'

head.

Raising his arm, Ross dealt the bird a furious blow.  It missed, but

had the effect of scattering the gulls.  Apathetically the lad watched

them as they flew off.  As he did so he caught sight of three vessels

being driven at high speed.

"Hurrah!" he exclaimed feebly.  "The destroyers, old man; we are saved!"

CHAPTER XIII

The Arm of the Law

"Hulloa!  What the deuce have we got here?" enquired Commander Devereux

of H.M. torpedo-boat destroyer _Yealm_, as three dripping figures were

transferred from the destroyer's dinghy to the deck.  "One strafed Hun,

right enough; but who are these fellows in mufti?"

"Can't say, sir," replied the coxswain.  "They sort o' collapsed

directly we got 'em into the boat."

"Then take them below," continued Devereux.  "I say, Fanshawe, there's

a job for you at last, my festive sawbones."

Fanshawe, lately a young country practitioner with a scattered "panel"

connection, had but recently entered the Navy as a surgical probationer

R.N.V.R.  He joined purely through patriotic motives, having sacrificed

a fairly substantial income in order to do so.  Up to the present his

work had been almost a sinecure.  The _Yealm_ had not had the faintest

chance of taking part in an engagement.  Her crew--to use Fanshawe's

own words--were "that beastly healthy, don't you know", that, out of

sheer anxiety to do something, he was learning navigation from the

Sub-lieutenant.

The medico undertook his first important professional task on board the

_Yealm_ with great alacrity, and it was not long before Ross and Vernon

were in a fit state to be questioned.  Hans Koppe was in a bad plight.

So utterly shaken were his nerves that he seemed on the point of

collapse.

"So you are the son of Admiral Trefusis," said the

Lieutenant-Commander.  "I can't say that I know him personally,

although I know of him.  But how did you get on board the submarine?"

Ross explained.  He felt hurt at having to do so.  The

Lieutenant-Commander's ignorance of the disappearance of the two chums

from St. Mena's Island "took all the wind out of his sails".  In

pre-War days the principal papers would have devoted at least half a

column to the supposed deaths by drowning, off the Cornish coast, of

two well-connected youths.  Nowadays editors had neither space nor

inclination to devote to such a comparatively trivial matter.

Consequently Devereux could be exonerated of all lack of knowledge of

the supposed accident.  Yet his interest grew as Ross proceeded with

his narrative.

"Look here," he remarked.  "We've got to dodge around for a few hours

in case your pal U77 does put in an appearance.  But I'll wireless the

Admiral and ask for a telegram to be sent to your homes, to let your

people know you are still alive and kicking."

"Better not, sir," objected Ross.

Devereux looked curiously at the lad.

"And why not?" he asked.

"Well, you see," explained Trefusis, "a telegram is not such a

confidential matter as one would like it to be, especially in a remote

country district."

"It's good news though," remarked the Lieutenant-Commander.

"Yes," admitted Ross; "but it is absolutely necessary to keep it dark

for a while.  A few hours won't make very much difference one way or

the other to my people, but it would make a thumping lot to our friend

Dr. Ramblethorne, otherwise von Hauptwald.  If he were to hear that we

were alive, he'd do a bunk.  The same with that other spy, von Ruhle.

They must be arrested promptly, and within a few hours of each other,

in case one of them scents trouble and clears out."

"I see your point," admitted Devereux.  "I won't send a wireless at

present.  You must be feeling peckish.  I'll get my steward to bring

you in some grub.  Excuse me, I must be off again.  We've a lot to

attend to, you know."

The Lieutenant-Commander went on deck to conduct operations.  He was

temporarily senior officer, and it fell to him to issue orders to his

two consorts relating to the investigation of the scene of the

battleship's exploit.

For two hours the three destroyers cruised over the spot where the two

submarines were supposed to have sunk.  At length wreckage was found by

means of grapnels.  It was, of course, much too deep to send a diver

down to report; but the spot was buoyed, and served as a base while

sweeping operations were proceeded with in the hope of locating the

hull of the second unterseeboot.  In a very short space of time two

operations undertaken for the purpose of destroying the sunken

submarine were highly satisfactorily carried out.  The first resulted

in the release of a small quantity of buoyant wreckage, amongst which

was the flagstaff of U75.  The second brought to the surface a quantity

of oil, showing that a submarine had been sunk there, but the injuries

she previously received had not been sufficient to liberate the

contents of the heavy oil-tanks.  The explosive charge had completed

the destruction of U77.

Just before five in the afternoon, the _Yealm_ and her consorts passed

the eastern arm of the breakwater in Plymouth Sound and brought up in

the Hamoaze.  Ross and Vernon, arrayed in borrowed clothes and

accompanied by Lieutenant-Commander Devereux, lost no time in going

ashore and proceeding to the offices of the Commander-in-Chief.

"You are acting with remarkable discretion," observed the Admiral, when

Ross reiterated his desire not to communicate with his home until the

spies were safely under lock and key.  "Fortunately there ought to be

no undue delay, as we have two expert Scotland Yard men investigating a

case in the Dockyard.  I'll telephone to the Superintendent of Police,

and get him to send the officers here at once."

Within ten minutes the officers were ushered into the

Commander-in-Chief's presence.  Ross and Vernon looked at them with

considerable curiosity.  It had not before fallen to their lot to come

into contact with two real representatives of the famous Scotland Yard.

Yet there was little about the appearance to occasion comment.  They

were not in any way disguised.  The taller of the two, who was

introduced as Detective-Inspector Ferret, was about forty years of age.

His closely cut hair was dark-brown, with a plentiful sprinkling of

grey hairs.  He wore a beard trimmed naval or "torpedo" fashion, with a

moustache.  He was dressed in a grey lounge suit, with dark-brown boots

and a golfing cap.  There was nothing of a piercing nature about his

eyes, which were of a deep-grey tint.  He seemed to be perpetually

beaming; the lines on his face gave one that impression.

His companion, Detective Hawke, was a short, thick-set man of about

thirty-five.  He was clean-shaven.  His features were ruddy and heavy.

There was a bulldog look about his jaw that proclaimed him to be a

tough customer.  His rough, brown, Harris-tweed suit and bowler hat

gave him the appearance of a prosperous yeoman rather than a successful

tracker of criminals.

"Now, young gentlemen," began Mr. Hawke briskly, after the

introductions had been made, "we'll get to business.  With your

permission, sir" (addressing the Admiral), "I will ask Mr. Trefusis to

give me his version of the affair.  To save time, I feel certain that

Mr. Haye will have no objection to going with my colleague and telling

him his story.  That, I must explain, is the best way to eliminate any

discrepancies.  We prefer to make a fair start, and then all ought to

go well."

During the next hour Detective-inspector Hawke was very busy.  He made

no written notes.  He relied solely upon his marvellous retentive

memory, and it was not long before he was in full possession of the

facts of the case.

His next step was to telephone to St. Bedal.  From the police there, he

learnt that Dr. Ramblethorne was medical officer to the 4th battalion

of a west-country regiment, but that he was temporarily detailed to act

on the recruiting staff at Wellington.

Hawke thereupon telegraphed to Harwich.  The Customs officers there

informed him that the Harwich-Flushing boat service had been suspended

for nearly a week, owing to the discovery of a hostile mine-field off

the Dutch coast.  Sailings were to be resumed that night.  A man who

gave himself out to be a Dutchman, but who answered to the description

of von Ruhle, had applied that morning for a permit to leave the

country by the night boat.  His berth had been booked under the name of

Cornelius Vanderhuit.

"Which one ought we to nab first?" asked Ferret.  "We'll have to be

very sharp, or one of them, finding that he is no longer in

communication with his accomplice, would smell a rat and clear out."

"Under normal conditions I would reply, 'Collar the principal first',"

replied Hawke.  "It is evident that Ramblethorne, _alias_ von

Hauptwald, is the master-spy.  Directly he's laid by the heels, the

whole of the organization immediately under his control goes by the

board.  But there's this Harwich business.  Von Ruhle crosses the North

Sea to-night, unless otherwise prevented.  We comprise the otherwise, I

hope."

"Then it would mean catching the midday express to Waterloo," remarked

Ferret.

"Could we go with you?" asked Ross.

The police officers looked rather astonished at the cool request.  Like

most professional men, they scouted the idea of amateur assistance when

the main issue was at stake.

"Perhaps it wouldn't be a bad idea," remarked Hawke.  "You have already

shown great discretion in the matter.  Most fellows would have made a

bee-line to the nearest telegraph office and given the whole show away.

The only difficulty is--I suppose, by the way, you are not feeling too

done up after your trying experiences?--the only difficulty is, I was

remarking, that von Ruhle might spot you.  Look here, Ferret; suppose

you take these young gentlemen, and proceed to Harwich by an ordinary

train?  Keep well out of sight when you arrive at Parkeston Quay, but

keep a sharp eye on the boat.  I'll travel from Liverpool Street by the

boat train, and see if I can pick out our quarry amongst the

passengers."

It was a tedious journey from Plymouth to Harwich.  Arriving at

Waterloo, Ferret took the lads to a quiet hotel and ordered lunch;

while Hawke, excusing himself, called in at "the Yard" to report his

new case to the Chief, and to wait for the Great Eastern boat train.

The weather had changed completely during the run from the West, for

when Ferret and the two lads arrived at Parkeston Quay it was raining

heavily, accompanied by half a gale of wind from the east'ard.

"We've a long wait," commented Ferret.  "Fortunately I know several of

the Customs officials very well.  I'll get them to let you take shelter

in their shed.  It's almost opposite the berth where the steamer

generally makes fast.  You'll be able to watch everyone who goes up the

gangway.  I'll go on board and speak to the steward.  I don't suppose

we'll spot friend von Ruhle until the boat train arrives, and by that

time perhaps Hawke will have marked his man."

Undoubtedly, the wisest course would have been to send other officers

to Wellington to arrest Dr. Ramblethorne; but Hawke was out for

"kudos".  Only a short while ago he had let a wanted man slip through

his fingers, and had been rapped over the knuckles for it.  With the

professional assistance of Ferret, he hoped to carry out a double

_coup_ and arrest both German Secret Service agents, thereby recovering

his lost prestige.

Arriving at Liverpool Street he took his ticket, and spent the time

until the departure of the boat train in walking up and down the

platform.  He had the knack of observing without being observed.  He

would look at a man in quite a casual way; there was no gleam of

intelligence in his eyes as he did so, but little escaped his notice.

An hour or two later he could accurately describe his appearance,

dress, and mannerisms.

A minute before the train started, a man answering von Ruhle's

description hurried down the platform.  He carried a new cane under his

left arm.  In his right hand he held an attaché case with the initials

C. V.

Hawke waited until he had entered a carriage, then strolled to the

other end of the corridor coaches and took his seat.  He knew that the

run was supposed to be a non-stop one.

The train started.  The detective took his time.  He waited for nearly

twenty minutes before he made his way along the corridor, and entered

the smoking-compartment occupied by the suspect.

Presently Hawke made a commonplace remark.  The stranger replied

stiffly and in rather a deep voice, with a slight foreign accent.

"An assumed voice," soliloquized the detective; but undaunted by the

chilliness of his reception he again made some remark about the weather.

Before the train ran through Witham station, conversation was

proceeding briskly.  Hawke assumed the rôle of a commercial traveller,

and volunteered the information that his brother had just returned from

the Front.

The stranger showed no hesitation in discussing the war.  Emboldened,

the detective tackled the subject of East Coast defences and the futile

German blockade.

"He's giving me absolutely false information," he thought.  "Perhaps

he's trying to throw me off the scent.  I'll put a few questions that

no one but an ignoramus would ask in good faith.  If he's trying to

bluff me, I'll beat him at that game."

Presently his fellow-passenger excused himself and, without removing

his luggage, went into the corridor.  As soon as he was out of sight

Hawke took hold of the cane that the stranger had left in the rack.

With a grunt of satisfaction he found that it was certainly not a

Malacca, but made of metal.

The train began to slow down.  Lifting the blind, Hawke looked out of

the window.  He could just discern a fairly big town, completely in

darkness.

"Manningtree Junction," said Hawke to himself.  "Something on the line,

I suppose.  H'm, we're stopping."

With a jerk the train pulled up at the station.  The platform was

almost deserted, for no train was due at that time to stop there.  A

door slammed.  Again the detective pulled aside the blind.  He was just

in time to see his fellow-traveller, accompanied by the guard,

disappear into the station waiting-room.

"He's tumbled to it!" exclaimed Hawke.  "He's making off.  He's tipped

the guard to set him down.  I'm after him!"

He made his way swiftly and stealthily down the platform, and with a

quick movement threw open the waiting-room door.

The sudden transition from the semi-darkness of the platform to the

brilliantly lighted interior of the room temporarily dazzled his eyes.

Dimly he was aware that the place was occupied by khaki-clad soldiers

struggling into their equipment, and that in their midst was the guard

and the man of whom he was in search.

"At any rate there is plenty of assistance," thought Hawke as he

advanced to tap the suspect on the shoulder; but before he could attain

his object a deep, stern voice exclaimed:

"Arrest him, men!"

The next instant Detective-inspector Hawke was seized by half a dozen

muscular hands.

"What's this tomfoolery?" he demanded angrily.  "I'm a Scotland Yard

officer, and----"

A roar of laughter burst from the Tommies.  Even the subaltern in

command smiled broadly.

The stranger spoke again.

"Take him to the guard-room.  He is arrested under the Defence of the

Realm Act for attempting to elicit information prejudicial to the

welfare of the State.  I won't detain the train any longer, guard,

although I'll ask you to drop my gear on the platform."

Still protesting vehemently but ineffectually, the detective was

unceremoniously hustled into an ante-room, used since the outbreak of

the war as a guard-room for the military in charge of the line.  The

door was locked upon him.  He heard the train rumble out of the station.

CHAPTER XIV

A Fruitless Quest

From their places of concealment Ross and Vernon watched the boat train

run alongside the steamer.  At last the weary vigil was a thing of the

past.  All fatigue was forgotten at the prospect of witnessing the

capture of one of the active members of the German spy system at work

in this country.

For a quarter of an hour everything was in a state of bustle.  There

was a continuous stream of passengers and porters, the latter bending

under the weight of trunks and boxes as they hurried up the steeply

sloping gangway.

At length the throng thinned.  As yet there was no sign either of von

Ruhle or of Detective-inspector Hawke.

A man with his coat collar turned up ran through the driving rain and

entered the shed.  It was Ferret.

"Something's gone wrong," he declared.  "I've just had a telephone

message from my colleague.  I'm off to the post-office.  If you want me

during the next ten minutes you'll find me there."

Hawke had at length managed to get a word with his former

fellow-traveller, who happened to be a staff-officer of the Eastern

command.  The detective had been under a misapprehension.  The officer

had good reason for ordering his arrest; but the comedy threatened to

take a serious development.  Even when the detective showed his

credentials the officer was not satisfied.  He proposed telegraphing to

Scotland Yard, but Hawke, mindful of a former failure, induced him not

to do so.  The detective, who had occasion to contrast unfavourably the

summary powers of arrest under the Defence of the Realm Act with those

allowed by the Civil Power, was eventually allowed to communicate with

his brother officer at Parkeston Quay.  And then the military

authorities required a considerable amount of convincing.  It looked as

if Detective-inspector Hawke would have to remain under arrest until

next morning.

While Ferret was losing time and patience in his efforts to release his

confrère, Ross and Vernon noticed a man hurrying along the quay.  He

was short and thick-set.  He wore a long mackintosh, the collar of

which was turned up and helped, with the peak of his cap, to hide his

features.

Suddenly the man's foot tripped over a ring-bolt.  He cursed under his

breath, but sufficiently loudly for the lads to overhear.

Ross gripped his companion's arm.  The fellow was swearing in German.

"Von Ruhle!" he whispered.  He made a movement as if to issue from his

place of concealment, but Haye restrained him.

"Hold on!" he cautioned in a low voice.

The man paused on the gangway.  A partly shaded electric light threw a

glare upon his face.  He wore a heavy beard and moustache.

"You're wrong," whispered Vernon.

"He's a German, anyhow," persisted Trefusis.

The man still hesitated.  Then he hailed a seaman.

"Where is the post office?" he asked.  "I wish to telegraph.  Is there

time before the boat sails?"

Receiving an affirmative reply the man hurried off.

"Come on!" exclaimed Ross.

Neither of the lads had now any doubts as to the man's identity.  The

beard and moustache were false, but the voice was the same--von Ruhle's.

Keeping close to the wall of the line of sheds, the lads followed the

spy at a distance of about fifty feet.  More than once von Ruhle

glanced furtively over his shoulder, as if suspecting that he was being

tracked.

Presently a man, reeling along the quay, approached.  The spy made no

effort to avoid him.  As the inebriated one rolled past he whispered a

few words.  The effect was instantaneous.  Instead of continuing his

way towards the post office, von Ruhle turned and made off abruptly in

the direction of the gate of the Company's premises.

"An accomplice," whispered Vernon.  "He's been warned."

They had to wait until the man who had feigned drunkenness had

disappeared.  By this time the German had gained a considerable

distance.  To get the assistance of the detective was out of the

question.

"Come on!" exclaimed Ross, breaking into a run.

Concealment was no longer necessary.  Should occasion arise, there

would be plenty of help forthcoming, for there were several dock

policemen and soldiers on duty close at hand.

Von Ruhle had increased his pace into a brisk walk when he heard the

noise of his pursuers.  Then he, too, began to run.

"Stop him!" shouted Trefusis, calling to a group of uniformed men

standing in front of an abattoir.

Turning, the German made towards the quay-side.  He was no match in

speed for his youthful pursuers; but he gained the water's edge before

Ross headed him off.

"Give in, von Ruhle!" he challenged.

The spy recognized the voice of the British lad whom he imagined to be

miles away, on board an unterseeboot.

With a quick movement, the spy plucked a leather case from his coat

pocket and hurled it over the edge of the quay, then, throwing up his

arms, he dropped lifeless upon the rain-sodden ground.

Rapidly a crowd collected.  Amongst them was Detective-inspector

Ferret, who, having finished his conversation with his luckless

confrère, was leaving the post office when he heard the commotion.

"Well, what's all this?" he asked brusquely.  He bent over the body of

the spy and flashed a pocket-lamp upon his face.  "It's our man," he

continued, addressing the lads in an undertone.  This remark was

needless, since they were already certain upon that point.  "He's done

us out of a job.  Heart disease?  No fear: it's poison.  Don't wait

here.  Your work in this direction is done.  I have still a few

unpleasant tasks to perform.  Cut off to the hotel and await me there.

I may be an hour."

"One moment," protested Vernon.  "We saw von Ruhle heave something over

the quay.  It might float; if so, there might be a chance to pick it up

by means of a boat.  The tide is almost slack.  If it has sunk it will

be a diver's task to recover it."

"'Something' is always unsatisfactory," remarked Ferret reprovingly.

"Was it large, small, heavy, or light?"

"He was so jolly quick that I could hardly see it," replied Haye.  "I

should think it was about the size of a cigar-case."

Directing two policemen to remove and take charge of the body, the

Detective-inspector accompanied the lads to the edge of the quay.  It

was dead low water.  There was hardly sufficient current coming down

the Stour to swing the anchored craft against the wind.  Then the

investigators made a discovery.  Although there was a good depth of

water at the greater extent of the quay, at this spot the mud was

uncovered at the base of the wall, while almost at their feet was a

flight of stone steps.

Ferret descended cautiously and switched on the light of the torch.

Almost within arm's length, and partly buried in the slime, was the

object which the spy had thrown away.

As the detective hooked at it with his stick a hoarse voice shouted:

"Ahoy there!  What are you doing with that light?"

Apparently from nowhere a boat ploughed through the mud until its bows

were within a couple of feet of the steps.  The next instant Ferret and

his companions were covered by a revolver.

It was a naval guard-boat, the watchful eye of the officer in charge

having discovered what he took to be surreptitious signalling.

Explanations followed, and were accepted.  Ferret, holding the

recovered prize, ascended the steps, followed by Ross and Vernon, while

the boat backed noiselessly away.  It was but one more example of the

ceaseless vigilance of the great, silent Navy.

Almost dead-beat, Trefusis and his chum made their way to the hotel,

had supper, and went straight to bed.  Ferret, they decided, could wait

until morning.

At 6 a.m. Hawke, having secured his release, arrived at Parkeston,

having engaged a motor-car to bring him from Manningtree.  Already his

vindictiveness towards the military had vanished.  He had taken a

sensible view of the situation.  He had played and lost, and the staff

officer was justified in the circumstances.  As for the soldiers, they

had to obey orders.

Nevertheless he was chagrined when he heard his confrère's report.  It

was galling to think that their spy had outwitted him by taking his own

life.  The whole energies of the two detectives must, for the present,

be concentrated upon the capture of the master-spy, Von Hauptwald,

otherwise Dr. Ramblethorne.

Ross and Vernon met Hawke again at breakfast.  He was now quite

cheerful.

"You managed to get hold of von Ruhle so well," he remarked, "that I

think you really ought to bear a hand with friend Ramblethorne,--that

is, unless you've had enough of man-hunting?"

"We'll do our best," said Ross.  "It's our duty."

"When do you start?" asked Vernon.

"Almost at once," he declared.  "Ramblethorne might be alarmed if no

telegram arrives from his fellow-spy.  Again, the man who communicated

with von Ruhle on the quay last night might have given Ramblethorne

warning.  It's not at all surprising to me, since what you told us, Mr.

Trefusis, that there has been an alarming outbreak of enteric at St.

Bedal camp."

He turned over several pages of a complex timetable.

"Here we are," he announced.  "We must get to Paddington in time to

catch the 10.20 for Wellington.  One thing, young gentlemen, you'll be

nearly home.  Ferret has arranged about the inquest on von Ruhle.  Your

evidence will be taken down in writing, and in that case you won't have

to put in an appearance at that grim farce."

Hawke spoke feelingly and from experience.  In his opinion, based upon

circumstantial evidence, "crowner's quests" were a form of legal

absurdity.

The train journey to Liverpool Street was undertaken almost in silence,

as far as the four travellers were concerned.  Hawke buried himself in

his paper; Ferret was poring over some document found in von Ruhle's

pocket-book, trying to unravel the complex code that, if deciphered,

would be of the utmost importance to the country.  Ross and Vernon,

still feeling tired, tried to make up for arrears of sleep.

Taking a taxi across London, they were just in time to catch the Great

Western express, which would take them to Taunton.  Arriving at that

place, they changed into a slow train that eventually landed them at

the little Somersetshire town nestling under the Black Down Hills.

Without delay the party proceeded to the regimental depot.  Enquiries

for Captain Ramblethorne, R.A.M.C., only resulted in looks of

perplexity.  He was unknown to the authorities.

"But we heard from St. Bedal that Captain Ramblethorne was ordered to

Wellington for recruiting duties," persisted Hawke.

The orderly-room clerk smiled sadly.

"Are you quite sure that it was this Wellington?" he asked.  "We've had

similar mistakes before."

Detective-inspector Hawke felt like kicking himself.  He, too, was

aware of the existence of the Shropshire Wellington, but, without

giving the possibility any consideration, he had rashly jumped to the

conclusion that the place to which Ramblethorne had been appointed was

the one nearest to St. Bedal.

Sorrowfully the four marched out of the office.  More delay ensued

while a wire was dispatched to St. Bedal, asking for further details.

It took two hours before the reply came.  "Regret not to have added

Salop to Captain Ramblethorne's address.--C.O."

"It's a long lane that has no turning," observed Ferret as they made

for the railway station.

Hawke bit his lip.  He knew that had the spy been warned promptly he

might be out of the country by this time.

It was dark when, after a tedious journey, the four travellers alighted

at Wellington, Salop.  Here, guarded enquiries elicited the information

that Captain Ramblethorne had gone to Bridgnorth to examine men "roped

in" at a recruiting meeting.  He had left for Bridgnorth two hours

previously.

"There are no trains to-night," announced Hawke.  "We'll have to get a

car."

Ten minutes later, Ross and his companions were speeding over the

horribly rough and hilly road between Wellington and Bridgnorth.  Past

ironworks and coal-fields, over or under a network of railway lines,

the car tore; then, leaving the mining district behind, it entered the

picturesque valley of the Severn, where the road skirts a range of

towering limestone crags.

In spite of their fatigue, the lads could not restrain an exclamation

of surprise and delight as the town of Bridgnorth, bathed in moonlight,

appeared in sight--a cluster of houses perched upon a bold rock, and

dominated by the scanty ruins of the old castle.  At the foot of the

cliff the Severn meandered placidly.  In the midst of the greatest war

the world has ever known, Bridgnorth appeared to retain all the

characteristics of complete peace.

The recruiting office was closed for the night.  With unerring instinct

the detective made for the principal hotel.  Here they found that

Captain Ramblethorne had engaged a room, but the manager showed them a

telegram that had just reached him.

"Took wrong train cancel room arriving to-morrow morning Ramblethorne."

"A blind," mentally ejaculated Ferret.  "He has been warned."

The telegram had been dispatched from Shrewsbury.  Ferret was again at

fault, for the mistake was a genuine one.  It so happened that the two

trains left Wellington at precisely the same time, the one for

Bridgnorth starting from a side platform.  Before he realized his

mistake Ramblethorne found himself well on the way to Shrewsbury, for

the train stopped at no intermediate station.

"Shrewsbury, as hard as you can go!" ordered Hawke, addressing the

chauffeur.

At a pace averaging fifty miles an hour the powerful car bounded over

the road.  Without mishap it gained the outskirts of the county town of

Shropshire, when an involuntary halt occurred.

It was on the English Bridge, a comparatively narrow structure crossing

the Severn.  A belated drover was driving a herd of refractory cattle

into the town when a motor-bicycle whizzed down the hill.

The cattle stampeded.  With a jerk that almost threw Ferret and Vernon

from the seat, the car brought up.  At the same time the motor-bicycle

slowed down, and dexterously avoiding a huge bullock, glided past the

stationary car.

The moonbeams shone directly upon the rider's face as Ross thrust his

head out of the window.  The motor-cyclist was Ramblethorne the spy.

The recognition was mutual.  The spy, cool and collected, gave no sign

of recognition.  The next moment he was travelling "all out" along the

Much Wenlock road.

"That's Ramblethorne!" exclaimed Ross excitedly.

"Botheration take him!" ejaculated Ferret.  "Are we to get no rest

to-night?"

He opened the window in front of him.  Hawke was sitting with the

chauffeur.  Quickly the detectives arrived at their decision.

"After that chap!" exclaimed Hawke, addressing the chauffeur; "that

motor-cyclist who has just passed.  Ten pounds if you overhaul and stop

him."

It was the bright moonlight that had tempted Ramblethorne to go for a

midnight ride.  He was a keen out-of-door man.  He could handle almost

any make of car or motor-cycle with the utmost skill.  Finding himself

at Shrewsbury, he hired a motor-cycle from an agent, intending to have

a run along the road following the banks of the Severn as far as

Ironbridge.  It was his practice, whenever in a strange place, speedily

to become conversant with the locality.  It was, in fact, part of his

training as a spy.

Ramblethorne was somewhat taken aback when he saw Ross's face in the

moonlight, although he betrayed no sign of surprise.  In an instant he

realized that, by some means, young Trefusis had escaped from U75;

more, he was with a party of men evidently hard on his track.

Quickly he made up his mind.  His career as a medical officer to the

British Service was ended.  He could no longer hope to serve the German

Government in that direction.  Before morning a hue and cry would be

raised.

As he swung along the broad, level road he thought out his plans.  He

would ride as hard as he could until his supply of petrol gave out--a

matter of about seventy or eighty miles.  Then he would abandon and

hide the motor-cycle, and make his way on foot to the Essex coast.

There, he had means to get on board a nominally British fishing-boat,

which would run him over to a Dutch port.

Although the motor-cycle was travelling at close on forty miles an

hour, Ramblethorne glanced back over his shoulder.  He hardly expected

to be pursued.  If the car had turned to attempt to overhaul him, it

would almost to a certainty take the wider of the two fork roads--that

leading to Wellington.

Disagreeably surprised, the spy saw the two powerful head-lights of the

car less than a mile behind him.

The chauffeur of the pursuing vehicle had set his heart on winning the

promised guerdon.  "All out" the car bounded along the road, leaving in

its trail a dense cloud of dust that slowly dispersed in the moon-lit

air.

Hanging on desperately to the sides of the swaying car, Ferret and the

two lads knelt upon the front seat of the coupe and peered through the

dust-flecked glass at the solitary motor-cyclist in front.  They were

gaining--rapidly at first, but now the gap between lessened almost

imperceptibly.

At that tremendous rate, the bursting of a tyre would result in

complete disaster, yet not one thought did the pursuers give to the

danger they were running.  Their sole attention was centred upon the

spy.

A sharp bend close to the village of Cressage enabled the car to get

within fifty yards of the motor-cyclist.  Hawke drew a revolver from

his pocket.  The chauffeur noticed the action out of the corner of his

eye.  Purposely he toyed with the sensitive steering-wheel, causing the

car to swerve erratically.

"Put it up, sir!" he exclaimed, shouting in order to make himself heard

above the roar of the wind over the screen.  "If you bring him down

we'll smash up on top of him before we can pull up.  We'll have him on

Harley Bank right enough."

A sharp run down through the village of Harley brought the car within

sight of a very steep hill, up which the road wound like a silver

thread against the black slope.  This was Harley Bank, one of the

steepest of many stiff Shropshire hills, its gradient averaging one in

seven.

Up mounted the motor-cycle.  Ramblethorne was attempting to take it on

high gear.

The chauffeur of the car took no risks.  He promptly dropped into

second gear, with the result that the gap between them increased to

nearly a hundred yards.  Then the motor-cycle began to falter.  Perhaps

Ramblethorne was not thoroughly acquainted with the mechanism of the

two-speed.  By the time he got the friction-clutch into action the car

had more than regained the lost distance--and the fugitive had not yet

reached the stiffest part of the hill.

"Head him off--jam him up against that bank!" ordered Hawke.

"What for, sir?" asked the chauffeur.  He had no objection to taking

part in a midnight chase, but his sense of prudence told him that it

was not advisable to deliberately smash up another vehicle.

"He's a spy," replied Hawke.  "Don't hesitate.  I will take all risks."

Fifteen seconds later the near front wheel of the car was abreast of

Ramblethorne's back wheel.  Hawke leant sideways with the intention of

gripping the motor-cyclist by the collar, since the relative speeds

were practically the same.  At the same moment the car edged a little

closer to the left-hand side of the road.

Ramblethorne realized the danger.  A collision would with almost

certainty result in his receiving a broken neck; capture meant

ignominious death at the hands of a firing-party.  There was yet a

third alternative--a dash for safety.

He threw out the clutch and applied both brakes, at the same time

bringing the motor-cycle on to the grassy bank.  He alighted on all

fours, but almost immediately regained his feet.  The car was already

twenty yards on ahead and still in gear.

He grasped his cycle by the handle-bars and raised it from its

recumbent position.  One look showed that the glancing impact had bent

the front forks.  The machine was no longer rideable.  Without

hesitation he sprang up the bank.  As he did so he heard the footfalls

of his pursuers.

"Be steady!" cautioned Ferret, as Ross and Vernon alighted from the

car.  "He may be armed.  We're the people to take the brunt of it--not

you."

They were now within a few feet of the summit of the road, which at

this spot ran through the hill by means of a cutting.  Close by were

three excavations.  Someone had evidently attempted to commence

quarrying there, but had abandoned the undertaking.  As far as the

detective could conclude, these pits formed the only possible

hiding-place in the vicinity.

"Hist!" exclaimed Hawke, holding up one hand to enjoin silence.

All was still.  No sound of stealthily retreating footsteps reached

their ears.  Hawke knelt down and placed one ear to the ground.

"Someone breathing pretty hard," he whispered.  "He can't be very far

away; in one of these holes most likely.  Perhaps he's hurt himself."

An investigation of the first possible hiding-place produced no result.

At the second Ross heard a long-drawn sigh, emanating from a patch of

bushes and tall grass.

"Here you are!" he exclaimed.

The place was in shadow, yet he could discern some dark object lying at

full length in the midst of the grass.

In a trice the two detectives threw themselves upon their prey.  For an

instant the man struggled wildly.  Ross and his chum joined in the

fray, each hanging on desperately to his plunging legs.  Ignominiously

he was dragged from his place of concealment into the bright moonlight.

Ferret was the first to give a gasp of astonishment.  Their victim was

not Ramblethorne the spy, but a powerfully built tramp, who, finding

himself released, began to expostulate with alarming vehemence.

"Stop that!" exclaimed Hawke authoritatively.  "We are police officers.

If you don't behave we'll take you in charge for sleeping out without

visible means."

The fellow, cowed into silence, slunk away.

"Confound it!" ejaculated Ferret.  "We've let Ramblethorne slip away

under our very noses.  He'll be clear by this time."

"I'm afraid so," agreed Hawke ruefully; then turning to the chauffeur

he told him to drive into the nearest village, which happened to be

Much Wenlock.

Here Ross and Vernon were able to secure a room at an inn, while the

Scotland Yard men were busy at the little police station, getting a

description of the spy issued through the countryside.

Next morning the lads set out on their return journey to Killigwent

Hall.

CHAPTER XV

The Admiral Works the Oracle

"Look here, old man; what do you say about having a shot for the Naval

Reserve?" asked Ross.  "In ordinary circs I would be prepared to go

through Sandhurst, but this isn't ordinary circs.  Before we pass out,

the war will be over perhaps."

"I'd rather like to see something of the fun," agreed Vernon.

"As if we hadn't already," added his chum.  "But I know what you mean.

Instead of being cooped up in an unterseeboot and hunted by our

fellows, we want to have a hand in rounding up the German submarines.

I vote we write to our respective governors about it."

This conversation occurred two days after the lads' return to

Killigwent Hall.  They had been given up as lost, and their unexpected

return had caused unbounded rejoicings.  Pressmen thronged the Hall to

gather "exclusive" information of the manner of their seemingly

miraculous rescue, but both Ross and Vernon were determined not to

satisfy outside curiosity.  They even kept the story of how the white

flag fluttered down from the signalling mast of U75 from their

immediate friends.

"It will take a long time for us to get a reply," objected Vernon.  "By

the time the letters hang about at the G.P.O., before they are sent to

the fleet, a week will elapse, and before we get a reply bang goes a

whole fortnight.  Let's get hold of a Navy List and see what the

qualifications are."

A careful perusal of the regulations resulted in a setback.  Midshipmen

in the R.N.R., they found, had to be between 16 and 18 years of age,

and must either have passed through a course of instruction for two

years on board an "approved" training ship, or else one year on board a

first-class British merchant ship.

"That's put the hat on it," declared Ross.

"One minute," interposed Vernon.  "Why not write to Admiral Garboard?

He's an old shipmate of my governor's, and I know he's a bit of a pot

up at Whitehall, although he's on the Retired List."

"He was with my pater in the old _Rhodaphlare_ on the China station,"

added Ross.  "We'll try; the wheeze might work."

Accordingly Vernon wrote to the Admiral, who lived about twenty miles

from Killigwent Hall.  Promptly came Sir Peter Garboard's reply:

"TRELANGKERRICK,"

  CORNWALL.

"DEAR VERNON,

"In reply to your letter I am sorry that I cannot help you in the

matter to which you refer, unless you and your friend can produce

sufficient evidences of qualifications for the desired posts.

"On principle I object to influence in any shape or form.  Entry into

any branch of the Service should, like promotion, depend solely upon

the aptitude and ability of a candidate.  This has been my standpoint

throughout the whole of my career, and I see no reason why I should now

depart from it.

"If, however, you think you have strong reasons for pressing your

claims, and you care to see me, we will go more fully into the matter.

"Believe me,

  "Yours faithfully,

    "PETER GARBOARD."

"Not so dusty," commented Ross.  "He does leave us a loophole, although

I'm afraid we'll have to blow our own trumpets.  I vote we cycle over

at once.  We'll catch him in just before lunch."

"Better wait until after he's had his grub," said Vernon.  "That's

always the time to get a man in a good humour."

"We'll risk that," declared young Trefusis.  "Come on."

It was a very hilly twenty miles run across the moors to

Trelangkerrick.  Starting at ten in the morning it took the lads two

hours and a quarter, in the face of a strong south-westerly breeze, to

cover the distance.

Half-way up the drive, they saw the Admiral and a companion emerging

from a path leading from the kennels.

"Hulloa!" exclaimed Sir Peter cordially, as he recognized Vernon Haye.

"So you haven't marked time in coming to see me.  This is young

Trefusis, I presume?  Glad to meet you.  Knew your father very well

back in the 'eighties.  Hope to renew the acquaintance soon, you know.

If it hadn't been for the war----"

Admiral Garboard had taken Trelangkerrick only since the declaration of

hostilities; consequently he had had no opportunity of meeting Admiral

Trefusis, who, since July of the previous year, had been continuously

"somewhere in the North Sea".

"Cecil, my boy," he continued, addressing his companion, a tall,

sunburnt man, in shooting garb although his clean-shaven features and

slightly rolling gait proclaimed him to be a sailor.  "Let me introduce

the sons of two of my old shipmates to you.  Ross Trefusis and Vernon

Haye--my nephew, Cecil Bourne.  You'll stay to lunch, of course.

Cecil's on three days' leave.  He's not satisfied with hunting German

submarines, but must needs go after my rabbits."

They walked towards the house, Ross and Bourne leading, and the Admiral

and Vernon bringing up the rear.

"We'll discuss this little matter after lunch, my boy," remarked the

Admiral.

The meal proceeded without a hitch, the Admiral in his breezy way

relating anecdote after anecdote of the Service in the good old days.

"By the by," he remarked, "what's this yarn I hear about your

neighbour, Dr. Ramblethorne?  There's a report that a warrant has been

issued for his arrest."

"For espionage, I believe," replied Vernon.

"Bless my soul!  Is that a fact?  One doesn't know whom to trust in

these days.  No details, I suppose.  A decent fellow, too, from what I

saw of him.  No, I don't think you've met him, Cecil, at least not

here.  By the by, you might tell the boys about your little adventure

up-Channel in the _Tremendous_."

Ross and Vernon turned very red in the face, but as they sat with their

backs to the window the change of colour passed unnoticed.

"Oh, that submarine business!" remarked Lieutenant Bourne modestly.

"Just an ordinary occurrence, don't you know, except for one thing.  I

was officer of the watch at the time.  We spotted a strafed

unterseeboot flying a white flag.  Have to be jolly careful, you see.

Either give the thing a wide berth, and wireless the destroyers to take

possession of the prize, or else cut the brute in two.  Anyhow,

something funny did happen.  There were two fellows in mufti standing

close to the skipper on the submarine's deck.  Goodness only knows why

they did it, but I saw one of them----"

"Cut the halliards and let the white flag down," interposed Vernon.

There was dead silence in the room.  Only intense excitement was

responsible for young Haye's lapse of manners.  The words had slipped

from him almost unconsciously.  Ross barked his shin as a gentle

reminder.

"By Jove!  How did you know that?" demanded Bourne.  "Shouldn't have

thought that the yarn had had time to travel very far.  Hope I haven't

been boring you?"

Vernon took his courage in his hands.

"It was Ross who cut the halliards," he announced.  "We were both on

board, and jumped overboard just in time, and got hold of a lifebuoy

dropped from the _Tremendous_ as she passed."

"By Jove!" ejaculated the Lieutenant.  "I am surprised.  I wondered

whether you were picked up.  It was a jolly plucky action.  But how did

you get on board the unterseeboot?"

"Aye, out with it!" added the Admiral.  "I heard that you were missing,

of course, and also of your return.  Truth to tell, I thought when I

got your letter that the pair of you had been acting the goat, and had

run away to sea and had thought better of it."

"We didn't run, sir, we were carried," explained Ross.  "And Dr.

Ramblethorne was responsible for it."

Admiral Sir Peter Garboard was not satisfied until he had heard the

complete story of his young friends' adventures.  When they had

finished he turned to his nephew.

"Young Haye and his chum came to see me on a private matter," he

remarked, "but I don't think they will object to your hearing what we

have to say."

"Are you quite sure you won't?" asked Bourne, addressing the lads.

"Both Trefusis and Haye are supposed to be going in for Sandhurst,"

continued Sir Peter.  "Although, candidly speaking, I don't see why a

naval man should want to put his son in the Army."

"In my case it is only following a family precedent," said Ross.  "For

generations back the eldest son has alternately been in the Navy and

Army."

"And in my case it is the force of circumstances," added Vernon.  "When

I was of the age to be sent to Osborne I was a puny little chap.  The

doctor wouldn't pass me."

"You've altered a bit since then, I can see," remarked Bourne.  "You

look as strong as a young horse now."

"Yes, I've grown out of my early ailments, I think," said Vernon.

"Pity the doctor hadn't passed you," said Sir Peter bluntly.  "Ten or

eleven is too young an age for any medical man to express a final

opinion upon.  I remember a fellow in the Service who was nearly blind

on one eye and almost as deaf as a post.  He got through the

medical--influence, I expect.  Anyway the Navy was none the worse for

it.  You'll remember him by name, Cecil: he was my secretary on the

China Station.  Funny thing about him was that he couldn't see to read

red figures unless he looked through a green glass.  Do you know that

when I received your letter I imagined that your temporary

disappearance had something to do with your running away to sea?"

reiterated the Admiral.  "The idea, I believe, comes to most boys

almost as a matter of course; something like measles, in fact."

"Well, now we've had a taste of submarine work, we feel that it is high

time we had a hand at helping to collar the German unterseebooten,"

explained Ross.

"I think it could be arranged," remarked the Admiral.  "You haven't had

actual experience, of course----"

"Eh!" exclaimed Bourne.  "By Jove, Uncle, I should say they had!"

"From a strictly professional standpoint, I ought to have said, only

you didn't give me time," added Sir Peter.  "I'll write off to the

Admiralty to-night and see if I can get you both into the R.N.R.  You

are too young to receive commissions as Sub-lieutenants, but no doubt

you can be taken on as midshipmen.  Stringent regulations go by the

board in war-time.  Isn't that so, Cecil?"

"They would probably be appointed to an armed liner for patrol duty,"

observed Bourne.  "There are, I believe, no midshipmen on the trawlers

and motor-boats in submarine-hunting."

"We must take what we can get," said Vernon, "but we would rather----"

"Yes, yes," interrupted the Admiral.  "I know.  You leave that to me."

Accordingly Ross and Vernon "left it to" the genial Sir Peter, with the

result that within a week they were specially appointed as temporary

midshipmen to the motor-patrol ship _Capella_.

CHAPTER XVI

H.M.S. "Capella"

With the least possible delay the two chums joined the _Capella_ at

Southampton.  She was one of an entirely new class of vessel, built for

the express purpose of ridding the high seas of the presence of the

modern pirates.  Looking at her as she lay in the Empress Dock, there

was little about her to attract the eye.  A raised fo'c'sle and poop,

and a low superstructure abaft the funnel, two stumpy masts and

grey-coloured "wall" sides, gave her the appearance of a trawler.  It

was only when one had an opportunity of seeing her in dry dock, where

her graceful under-body, with its fine "entry" and clean run aft, was

visible, that any idea of her speed could be arrived at.  Further

details would be undesirable.  Sufficient to add, to quote a Yankee

journalist who had been given an opportunity of paying a visit to the

Grand Fleet and inspecting the component units of the greatest armada

that the world has yet seen, the class to which she belonged were "some

boats".  The exigencies of the hitherto unprecedented method of

carrying out the naval side of the Great War had demanded the creation

of large flotillas of small motor-driven hornets.  In the initial

stages the want was temporarily supplied through the patriotism of

owners of private motor-boats.  These craft, good in their way, were

handicapped by a lack of uniformity.  Nevertheless they served as an

excellent training-school until the Admiralty with remarkable celerity

produced the novel type of craft to which the _Capella_ belonged.

The _Capella_ carried a large crew in proportion to her size--four

officers and twenty-four men.  Her skipper was Stanley Syllenger, who

held the rank of Lieutenant-Commander, R.N.R.  He was a big, bluff man

of about thirty-five, a strict disciplinarian, and a stickler for duty.

He could be very outspoken when he wanted, which was fairly frequently,

but withal he was of a thoroughly good-natured disposition.

There were two Sub-lieutenants, R.N.R.  The senior was John Barry, a

very mild type of young officer.  He usually spoke in a very soft

voice, except when occasion warranted, when he could bellow in a way

that would take a stranger entirely by surprise.  It seemed incredible

that such a bull voice could belong to such a dapper little man as John

Barry.

The other Sub was Noel Fox--a tall, deep-chested fellow of twenty,

boisterous, and full of spirits.  In five crowded years he had gained a

good knowledge of three oceans, and a nodding acquaintance with the

remaining two.  Beginning his career on board a five-masted sailing

ship, he had served in tramps, "intermediates", and mail steamers until

the outbreak of the war, when he found himself appointed to an armed

liner that abruptly terminated her existence by trying conclusions with

a German mine.

Captain Syllenger and Sub-lieutenant Barry were pacing the diminutive

quarter-deck of the _Capella_ as she lay alongside the quay.  The

skipper had heard officially that morning of the appointment of two

temporary midshipmen to the craft under his command.  "Hanged if I can

understand it, Barry!" he exclaimed in his outspoken manner.  "What's

the idea of turning the _Capella_ into a nursery, I should like to

know!  These youngsters are somebody's pigeons, I suppose.  The usual

yarn.  Influence up topsides does the trick, and we're saddled with two

raw lubbers."

"There is no mention of their having had previous sea-service, sir?"

remarked Barry.  "But perhaps they'll turn out fairly smart."

"They will," added the Lieutenant-Commander grimly; "that is, if I have

anything to do with them for any length of time.  But, by Jove! here

they are, unless I'm much mistaken."

Looking rather self-conscious in their brand-new uniforms, Ross and

Vernon doubled down the steeply sloping gangway.  As they came aboard,

Syllenger noted with professional satisfaction that they both saluted

the quarter-deck.  The action showed, by one thing at least, they were

not the greenhorns he expected to receive.

"You have had no previous experience, I believe?" he asked, after the

midshipmen had introduced themselves.

"Very little, beyond knocking about in yachts and boats," replied Ross.

"That's something," decided the skipper.  "A fellow who starts his

career in a small boat has the makings of a good seaman.  It is rare

indeed that a man who goes straight to sea in a steamship makes a smart

man in a boat.  If ever you go on patrol duty you'll find your

experience of value.  By the by, I suppose you know our particular job?"

"Yes, sir," replied Ross.  "Hunting submarines."

"Ever seen one?" asked Syllenger abruptly.

"Several of the D and E classes manoeuvring in Plymouth Sound."

"But a German one?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where?"

"We've both spent nearly a week on board an unterseeboot, sir."

The skipper sternly regarded the two midshipmen.

"Look here," he said.  "If you think you've come on board to gammon me,

the sooner you get that idea out of your heads the better.  There's no

room on the _Capella_ for a pair of modern Ananiases."

Ross said nothing.  From the outside left breast-pocket of his

"undress" coat he produced a white foolscap envelope, bearing in blue

the "foul anchor" badge of the Admiralty.

The Lieutenant-Commander took the proffered envelope somewhat

suspiciously.  He more than half expected that it was a letter of

introduction from a high official at Whitehall, on the strength of

which the two midshipmen felt inclined to "put on side".

Instead, he found that it contained an autograph letter from the

Admiralty, thanking the lads for their bravery and presence of mind,

whereby they materially assisted in the preservation of H.M.S.

_Tremendous_ and in the destruction of two of the enemy submarines.

The document finished by congratulating Ross and Vernon on their escape

from U75, and trusted that their career as midshipmen of the R.N.R.

would be marked with success.

Syllenger read it through carefully and slowly, deliberately returned

it to the envelope, and handed it back to Ross.  Then he held out his

hand.

"I'm sorry for what I've said," he declared simply.  "Forget it, if you

can.  Come and lunch with me at one bell."

"Thank you, sir," replied Ross in answer to the invitation; then, after

a pause, he added: "we didn't want to brag about it, but you made us."

"So I understand," said the skipper.  "I've misjudged the pair of you,

but the least said about my part of it the better, I fancy."

He hailed a couple of men, instructing them to strike the midshipmen's

luggage down the companion-ladder.  Ross and Vernon followed, to be

introduced to their new quarters.

Owing to the _Capella's_ shallow draught, the cabin space was rather

limited.  The Captain's quarters were a double cabin, comprising a

state-room and sleeping-room, in a deck-house under the bridge.  The

two Subs had each a small "dog-box", as they termed it, aft on the

starboard side.  The engineer had a similar cabin on the port side.

Adjoining his quarters was another cabin, which had hitherto been used

as an overflow receptacle for officers' luggage.  This had now been

cleared out, and hooks provided for the two midshipmen to sling their

hammocks.  The slinging and unlashing of the hammocks was performed by

a servant, to whom Ross and Vernon had each to pay ten shillings a

month for the privilege.  During the day the cabin made a fairly

comfortable room, although the furniture was Spartan-like in its

simplicity.

At six bells (11 a.m.) the _Capella_, having replenished her fuel and

stores, and made good slight defects, was "tracked" out of the dock.

An hour later she left Southampton, bound for a rendezvous off Beachy

Head, near which a U-boat had been reported to have made an

unsuccessful attack upon a swift merchant vessel.

The run down Southampton Water was necessarily performed at

quarter-speed, for in spite of her light displacement the _Capella's_

wash at full speed was almost equal to that of a liner.  Even as it

was, a long line of white foam lashed itself upon the mudflats several

minutes after she had passed.

When Calshot Castle was abreast, speed was increased to 30 knots.

There was an easterly breeze blowing against the ebb-tide, with the

result that quite a choppy sea was met with outside Southampton Water.

Like a knife, the sharp cutwater of the _Capella_ cleft the waves,

sending up showers of white spray; but such was her speed that, before

the wind could carry the spindrift on deck, the swift vessel was beyond

the cascade of foam.  She hardly felt the motion of the waves; indeed,

she was so steady that it was possible to place a pail of water on deck

without any of the contents being spilt by the "lift" of the ship.

Under the guidance of Noel Fox, the midshipmen made the round of the

vessel, the Sub explaining everything to them in detail.  Already the

lads had taken a great fancy to the Sub, and Fox reciprocated the

sentiment.  He had a way about him that enabled him to give particulars

of the most intricate mechanism without having to resort to dry,

parrot-like instruction.

By the time he had explained the ingenious devices used to entrap the

German unterseebooten, Ross and Vernon felt inclined to marvel how it

was they found themselves on board the _Capella_, since only sheer good

luck had saved U75 from being doomed during every hour of their brief

and involuntary detention.

"Yes, we can mop up the German submarines quicker than they can turn

them out," said the Sub.  "Of course I don't mean to say that a few of

them won't get a smack at some of our ships for some time to come; but

all the same we are giving them beans.  From a strictly professional

point of view we would be sorry if Old Turps abandoned his 'effectual'

blockade.  Our chances of having a high old game with the

unterseebooten would be considerably reduced."

"There are still some in the English Channel," hazarded Vernon.

"Yes, a few; but have you noticed how those fellows fight shy of Dover?

They shun it like the plague.  It's horribly unhealthy for them.  D'ye

know why?  Perhaps you wouldn't have paid much attention to it, but

some months ago the Admiralty issued a 'Notice to Mariners', stating

that the Straits of Dover were heavily mined, and that all shipping was

to pass through the Downs within three miles of the Kentish coast.

"So it's fairly safe to assume that the few stray unterseebooten that

are still lurking in the Channel have made the passage round the north

coast of Scotland.  It's only a matter of time before we bag the lot, I

fancy."

"And our submarines?" enquired Ross.

"Have fewer opportunities since the Hun battleships and cruisers have

such a decided inclination to remain in harbour," rejoined Fox.  "When

there's a chance, you can bet your bottom dollar that our fellows seize

it.  Quite recently one of our submarines found herself alone and

disabled in the Bight of Heligoland.  Undismayed, her

lieutenant-commander signalled to a passing German trawler, covered her

with his guns, and made the Hun tow the crippled submarine into British

waters.  Then he released his involuntary benefactor, but before so

doing can you guess what he did?"

"No," replied both lads.

"Made the Huns line up on deck and sing the 'Hymn of Hate'.  You can

imagine the surprise of the trawler's men, who, judging by the

treatment meted out to our fishermen by the German submarines, expected

nothing less than imprisonment and the loss of their boat.  But it's

close on one bell," remarked Fox at length.  "You're messing with the

skipper to-day, I believe.  He's quite a decent sort when you know him

properly, but it takes a bit of doing."

A seaman strode up to the bell and gave it a sharp stroke.  Just then a

messenger hurried from the diminutive "wireless" room abaft the

chart-house and, leaping down the ladder at a single bound, knocked at

the door of the Captain's cabin.

"Stow those things away, Sparkes," exclaimed Captain Syllenger.  "Lunch

will have to wait."

He dashed out of his cabin.  On the way to the bridge he passed Fox and

the two midshipmen.

"You'll have to tighten your belts, my lads," he announced.  "We've

just had a message through.  A strafed unterseeboot has been spotted

trying to get into Spithead.  If we don't nab her within half an hour,

I'll eat my hat!"

CHAPTER XVII

A Double Bag

It was a sea-plane, flying at fifteen hundred feet above the Warner and

The Nab Lightships, that had detected an elongated shadow creeping

stealthily over the shingly bottom close to the Dean Tail Buoy.  The

shadow was that of a German unterseeboot, since none of the British

submarines were known to be in the eastern approaches to Spithead.

Evidently she had gone out of her course, for instead of being in the

main channel she was well to the north of it.  More than likely the

strong east-going tide, which hereabout surges at such a rate that it

causes the shingle 30 or 40 feet beneath the surface to emit a deep

rumble, had taken the unterseeboot in its grip.

Promptly the sea-plane wirelessed the news, and quickly a "general

call" was sent to the patrol vessels in the vicinity.  The _Capella_

was one of the craft that picked up the welcome order.

She was now only seven sea miles distant from the Dean Tail Buoy.

Within ten minutes of the receipt of the wireless she was on the

spot--one of the very first of a regular hornet flotilla bent upon

adding yet another of Von Tirpitz's pets to the "bag".

For the next quarter of an hour it looked as if a novel kind of marine

waltz was in progress.  Nearly a score of swift vessels were executing

fantastic movements at full speed, circling and interchanging positions

until it seemed as if collisions were impossible to avoid.

Their object was to thoroughly bewilder the already doomed U-boat, for,

if possible, her capture in a practically intact condition was desired.

In very deep water, salvage of a sunken submarine was out of the

question; here, in a comparatively shallow depth, and close to an

important naval base, to which the prize could be taken with little

trouble, the opportunity for capture rather than instant destruction

was too good to be missed.

Suddenly a cloud of white smoke shot up from the sea.  Its appearance

was greeted by hearty cheers from the patrol vessels.  It was a signal

that the U-boat, in her attempt to find deep water, had floundered

blindly into the trap.  Over and over again the hunters passed, towing

non-explosive grapnels, until it was certain that the prey was helpless

in their toils.

Then, in obedience to an order from the senior officer, the swift

vessels withdrew for nearly three cables' length from the spot where

the boat lay.  Two slow but powerfully engined trawlers approached at a

cable's length abreast, towing the bight of a massive steel hawser

between.  Doing little more than drift with the tide they crept past

the submerged U-boat, one on either side of the mark-buoy that

indicated her position.

Presently the strain on the hawser increased.  It was only by making

full use of the twin-screws that the trawlers were able to prevent

themselves from swinging together.  The steel rope stretched until it

resembled two metal bars which bore silent testimony to the strain.

Just then the two vessels shot ahead.  Although the hawser was still

intact, it no longer took any strain.  But its work was done.  The

bight, engaging the conning-tower of the unterseeboot, had turned the

submarine on its side.  In the space of a few seconds the deadly fumes

from the capsized batteries had almost painlessly accounted for the

crew of the U-boat, who themselves had neither pity nor consideration

for the hapless victims, men, women, and children, massacred against

all dictates of humanity and convention of civilized warfare.

"A bit of work for the dockyard lighters to-morrow," commented

Sub-lieutenant Barry, as the _Capella_ parted company to resume her run

up-Channel.  "They'll raise the U-boat, and take her into dry dock,

before the sulphuric acid has had time to do much damage to her

mechanism."

"I shouldn't be surprised if there were another U-boat knocking

around," remarked Vernon.  "From our limited experience we know that

they work either in pairs or threes."

"Then the worse for them," rejoined Barry.  "It would be a great wheeze

to bag two of them in one day.  Desperate diseases need desperate

remedies, you know."

Therein the Sub voiced the unanimous opinion of the British Navy.  At

the commencement of the war, the torpedoing of several battleships and

cruisers by German submarines aroused no enmity within the hearts of

the British tars.  They realized that a warship is "fair sport" to the

submarines of the opposing side.  To run the risk of being blown up was

one of the excitements to undergo in the course of duty.  But when it

came to torpedoing helpless merchantmen, and jeering at the

death-struggles of the unfortunate crews, Jack Tar began to regard the

unterseebooten in the light of pirates and murderers.  The wanton

destruction of the _Lusitania_, accompanied by the appalling death-roll

of non-combatants, women and children, literally sounded the

death-knell of the crews of von Tirpitz's jolly-Roger-flying

submarines.  In their methods of "frightfulness" they had overreached

themselves.  They had sown a wind: they were now reaping a whirlwind

with a vengeance.

And now the great silent Navy was paying back von Tirpitz in almost,

but not quite, his own coin.  While the much-advertised blockade of

Great Britain was petering out, British submarines were playing havoc

with German shipping in the Baltic--a sea which the Teutons regarded as

being almost their very own.  Yet what a difference marked the methods

adopted by the humane commanders of our submarines when dealing with

German mercantile shipping.  A punctilious regard for the safety of the

crews of overhauled merchantmen won admiration even from the seamen of

the destroyed vessels.  Humiliation and reproach seemed to haunt the

white-bearded dotard, whose hands had sought in vain to wrest the

trident from Britannia's virile grasp.

At about five in the afternoon the _Capella_ arrived at her station off

Beachy Head, relieving her sister ship the _Markab_, that, with three

other motor-driven craft, had been engaged in a vigorous, but for the

most part uneventful, patrol.

Day and night for a fortnight at a stretch, unless anything unforeseen

took place, the _Capella_ was to cruise up and down, keeping a smart

look-out for any sign of an object resembling a hostile periscope.  In

order to economize her fuel supply her speed was reduced to 10 knots.

It was then that her bad qualities showed themselves.  With her shallow

draught and high freeboard she rolled like a barrel, since speed was

essential to impart steadiness.  The motion was certainly

disconcerting, although it did not imply that the _Capella_ was

unseaworthy.

"'Fraid our chances of bagging another U-boat to-day are off," remarked

Barry to Ross.

It was within half an hour of sunset.  The chums had been temporarily

separated.  It was Vernon's "watch below".  The senior Sub and young

Trefusis were on the bridge.  In spite of the still-prevailing east

wind it was a grand evening.  Three miles away, broad on the starboard

beam, the chalk cliffs known as the Seven Sisters were beginning to be

tinted by the crimson hues of the western sky.  To seaward, three large

vessels were in sight.  One, a liner bound down-Channel, was pelting

along at such a pace with the wind that the smoke from her funnels was

rising almost perpendicularly.  Forging ahead in the opposite direction

were two big tramps, the smoke from their funnels, beaten down by the

strong breeze, trailing across the surface of the water for a couple of

miles in their wake.

"An object lesson," remarked Barry.  "The arteries of the Empire.  Hang

it all!  The blockade reminds me of a pigmy treacherously stealing up

behind a giant and trying to cut his jugular vein.  Instead, he merely

scratched a comparatively unimportant capillary, and feels mighty sorry

for himself when the giant turns and scruffs him by the neck."

Leaning over the bridge-rails, the Sub startled his companion by

bellowing in a voice loud enough to be heard a mile away:

"On look-outs!  Stand by bow and stern lights!"

The _Capella_ was making preparations for the night.  Unlike the armed

merchantmen that are compelled to scour the North Sea, summer and

winter alike, without showing the faintest glimmer of a lamp, the

_Capella_ observed the rules and regulations for preventing collision

at sea.  Her port, starboard, and bow lamps were lighted by

electricity, but, in order to guard against possible break-down of

current, oil lamps had also to be trimmed and lighted, ready, should

occasion serve, to take their places.

It was part of Ross's duty to report to the officer of the watch that

these lamps were in order, and also, at regular intervals, that the

navigation lights were burning brightly.

Presently the Sub prepared to take a cross-bearing.  He was fairly

certain that the _Capella_ had reached the westernmost limit of her

patrol-ground.  From that point she was to proceed due south for 10 sea

miles, and then due east for 20 miles until she fell in with her

"opposite number".

While Barry was thus engaged, Ross noticed a sail about 2 miles distant

on the starboard quarter.

"By Jove!" he muttered as he brought his glass to bear upon the

stranger.  "That's a funny rig."

The craft was a "two-sticker".  She was square-rigged on the foremast,

carrying fore-topsail and fore-course.  No jibs were set; neither, as

far as he could see, was any sail set on the mainmast.  The vessel's

sides were painted green with a broad red band.

Even as he kept the craft under observation she starboarded her helm,

shaping a course that would converge upon that of the rearmost of the

two tramps.  By so doing she exposed a considerable portion of her

broadside.

Ross gave an exclamation of astonishment.  Above the green sides

appeared what was undoubtedly the conning-tower and housed periscope of

a submarine.  "Submarine on the starboard quarter, sir!" he reported.

"What!" exclaimed Barry, levelling his telescope.  "By Jove, yes!  What

luck!"

The unterseeboot had, of course, noticed the _Capella_, and had

mistaken her for a trawler.  She realized that she ran a risk in case

the latter might be armed, but, trusting to her disguise, she hoped to

get within torpedo range of the tramp--a vessel of over 3000 tons--sink

her, and make her escape in the confusion that was bound to ensue.  On

the other hand, her Kapitan had good reasons for thinking that the

supposed trawler was not one of the armed patrol, since they usually

worked in company.  By rigging canvas bulwarks and setting sail upon

dummy masts, he was able to approach with little fear of detection.

"Action!"

Quickly the _Capella's_ crew were at their stations.  The quick-firers

were loaded, and their screens lowered so as not to impede their arc of

fire.  Until these preparations were complete the vessel still held on

her course.

Then Captain Syllenger, who had come on deck, telegraphed for full

speed ahead.  Like a racehorse the _Capella_ leapt forward.

A double, converging line of white foam marked the track of a torpedo

from the doomed U-boat.  By a slight alteration of helm the _Capella_

avoided it.  The action was hardly necessary: it was merely a matter of

precaution, since the _Capella's_ peculiarities of construction made

her practically immune from torpedo attack.

Captain Syllenger had no intention of ramming his opponent.  Ramming

with a lightly built vessel, such as the _Capella_, would only be

employed as a last resource.

At an almost point-blank range of 400 yards both bow guns were fired

simultaneously.  There was no need for another shot.  One of the

projectiles, hitting the U-boat at the base of the conning-tower, tore

a jagged hole a couple of feet in diameter.  The other shell hit her

about 10 feet from the bows, and, with an erratic peculiarity that such

missiles have after the first impact, was deflected downward, expending

the full force of its explosive charge in the submarine's bow

torpedo-room.

In a moment the luckless U-boat was done for.  A huge column of smoke

marked the spot where she had disappeared like a stone, while flying

pieces of metal hurtled far and wide through the air.  Several of the

fragments clattered upon the _Capella's_ deck as she swung round to

avoid any possibility of fouling debris.  Of the crew not a man was to

be seen.  Those who had not been killed by the shell-fire had been

wiped out by the explosion of their own torpedoes.

"We've pulled off a double event to-day, after all," remarked

Sub-lieutenant Fox as he disappeared down the companion-ladder to

resume his interrupted "watch below".  "Barry has got his wish."

CHAPTER XVIII

The Smoke-signals

For the next ten days nothing occurred beyond the ordinary routine.

Even Ross and Vernon, to whom everything was at first a novelty, began

to feel the irksomeness of the constant and vigilant patrol.  No

hostile submarines made their appearance; there were not even any

reports, true or otherwise, that they had been sighted.  It was the

same all along the English Channel--"nothin' doing".  It seemed as if

the unterseebooten had finally given up these waters as a "bad egg".

Yet it would be most injudicious for the naval authorities to relax

their watchfulness.  Areas of strategic importance must still be

closely guarded, since it was just possible that the wily Teuton would

refrain from submarine warfare in the Channel until the patrol-boats'

crews were lulled into a sense of false optimism.

The only break in the monotony was the occasional and welcome

appearance of a motor-boat from Shoreham, bringing off fresh supplies,

newspapers and letters for the patrol vessels.

Amongst Ross's correspondence was a letter from his father.  Admiral

Trefusis gave no indication of what he was doing, merely a brief

statement that he was still "somewhere in the North Sea".  He

congratulated his son upon his escape, and mentioned that he had heard

from the captain of H.M.S. _Tremendous_ with reference to his son's

action in warning the battleship.  But although the Admiral did not

express himself very enthusiastically on paper, he was as pleased as

only a proud father can be at his boy's display of gallantry and

resource.  "Under the circumstances," he wrote, "I think you did right

in temporarily abandoning your preparation for Sandhurst.  No doubt you

will acquit yourself in your present position as a Trefusis should do.

I was certainly surprised to hear about that fellow Ramblethorne.  He

always appeared to be a really decent man.  It only shows how careful

one has to be when dealing with a highly organized enemy."

Amongst Vernon's batch of correspondence was a letter from

Detective-inspector Hawke.  It was couched in semi-official language, a

survival of days long ago when the Inspector was a budding constable

and had to submit countless written reports to his superiors.

There was, he wrote, no definite news concerning Ramblethorne,

otherwise von Hauptwald.  The local police had taken up the case, and,

assisted by the military, were still scouring the country.  As usual,

there were inaccurate and misleading reports from various parts of the

country.  It was generally accepted that the spy was being hidden by

some of his compatriots who, by indulgence of the British Government,

were still at large in the country, or else that he had succeeded in

getting away on board a neutral ship.

The inquest on von Ruhle had taken place, with the anticipated result,

a verdict of _felo de se_ being returned by the jury.  No evidence had

been submitted as to the dead man's real occupation.  Under the name of

Cornelius Vanderhuit his body was handed over to the authorities for

interment.

But the case did not end there.  It remained for the competent

Authorities to decide the steps to be taken with reference to the

papers that had been found in von Ruhle's possession.

"I am keeping von Ruhle's 'malacca' as a memento," concluded Hawke.

"It may help me to discriminate between it and a portable metal tripod,

and save me from being placed under arrest by the military.

Fortunately, upon the last occasion, I did not meet with my Waterloo."

"The old chap feels a bit sore about it, I can see," remarked Ross.

"He's written a good deal more than he evidently intended.  However, he

looks like 'making good' this time."

"It's a pity Ramblethorne slipped through the detectives' fingers,"

said Vernon, as he prepared to go on deck.  "That fellow's bound to

cause trouble until he's laid by the heels."

It was Noel Fox's "trick".  The Sub was standing on the bridge with his

eye glued to his telescope.  A mile or so inland, on the summit of the

South Downs where they approach Beachy Head, three columns of smoke

were rising in the still air.  There was nothing extraordinary in that.

It might be a farmer burning rubbish on his fields; but what attracted

the Sub's attention was the remarkable and systematic changes in the

density of the smoke.  At one moment the two outside pillars were

heavy, the centre one being little more than a thin haze; at another

the conditions would be reversed.

Fox decided to take action.  Rapidly the _Capella_ closed with the

shore, until she was within signalling distance of a coast-guard

station.

The station in question was not manned by coast-guards.  Not considered

important, its complement was depleted at the outbreak of hostilities,

most of the men joining the large armoured cruisers.  A chief officer

and a boatman alone remained.  These were at a later period augmented

by a party of Sea Scouts.

As soon as the _Capella_ had "made her number", a signaller took up his

position on the roof of the chart-house.

"Fires burning one mile inland to north-west of coast-guard station,"

he semaphored.  "Suspect smoke-signals.  Investigate and report."

Keeping his telescope bearing on shore, Vernon watched the result of

the signal.  Promptly half a dozen Scouts, mounted on bicycles, set off

to the position indicated.  Their progress was hidden by an intervening

clump of trees, but in less than a quarter of an hour they returned.

By this time the smoke had disappeared.  One of their number worked the

semaphore attached to the station.

"Fires made with damp straw.  Found old blankets apparently used to

stifle smoke.  Saw large car stationary; made towards Lewes on

approach; number known; have informed police."

"Smart youngsters!" exclaimed Captain Syllenger.  "They've helped to

nip some little plan in the bud.  We'll have to be jolly careful for

the next few days, I expect.  Did you make a note of the fog-signals,

Mr. Fox?"

"I did, sir," replied the Sub, producing a leaf of a notebook covered

with an unintelligible number of lines.  "Each of these strokes

represents a column of smoke according to its position."

"I can make nothing of it," remarked Syllenger.  "At any rate I'll send

your result to the Admiralty with the utmost dispatch.  Take her in,

Mr. Fox, and bring up where you find the two-fathom mark."

The _Capella_ headed nearer towards the shore, a leads-man sounding

until the required depth was found.  One of the boats was lowered,

manned, and rowed to the coast-guard station, Sub-lieutenant Barry

being in charge, with Ross as his immediate subordinate.

"I want this to be forwarded to the Admiralty with the least possible

delay," he announced, addressing the chief officer.  "How long do you

think it will take to get through?"

"Too late for the eleven something train from Brighton, sir," was the

reply.  "There's a gentleman in the village who has a big car.  He's a

member of the Volunteer Training Corps.  No doubt he'll take it as far

as Lewes.  Why, sir, here's the gent himself!  Mr. Hyde's his name."

The newcomer was a sparely built man of below medium height.  He looked

about thirty years of age.  In reality he was nearly fifty.  Having

vainly attempted to obtain a commission in the R.N.R. and the Army, he

had joined the V.T.C. in the hope that, perhaps, some day his services

might be utilized in a very practical form.  Now his chance was at hand.

He had strolled down to the beach on noticing a boat putting off from

the patrol vessel.

"Lewes?  Certainly," he replied in answer to Barry's question.  "I

doubt whether you'll save much.  Why not let me take the message right

to the Admiralty?  I'd like to do it, 'pon my word I would."

The Sub hesitated.  Perhaps the stranger might be all right; but he

might be all wrong.  One had to be very careful in these times.  Yet

the offer was a tempting one.  If possible, it was most desirable to be

able to decipher the transcription of these mysterious columns of smoke.

"I say, Trefusis," he said, "you've had a fairly long time afloat; what

do you say to a run up to town?  I'm sure this gentleman would make no

objection to giving you a seat in his car."

"With the greatest pleasure," declared Mr. Hyde.

"Thanks!" rejoined Barry.  "Of course the honour of delivering the

letter will be yours, sir.  Mr. Trefusis accompanies you merely as a

passenger.  We'll stand by to pick you up, Trefusis.  I'll make it all

right with the skipper."

The Sub accompanied Mr. Hyde and the midshipman to the garage, which

was about four minutes' walk from the coast-guard station.  While the

man was getting out the car (he was his own chauffeur), Barry seized

the opportunity of telling Ross to be on his guard, in case anything

suspicious occurred.

With a terrific bound the powerful car started on its sixty-mile

journey.  Between the sea and Lewes the needle of the speed-indicator

never fell below 40 miles an hour, until at times the car was running

at 60.  Village after village was passed at almost break-neck speed.

In vain, sleepy rural constables sought to hold up the reckless driver.

Discretion was the better part of valour, so they stood aside and

attempted to note the number on the identification plate of the car.

Again in vain.  All they could see and swallow was a cloud of white,

chalky dust that hung thickly on the sultry air long after the car was

out of sight and hearing.

The hills around East Grinstead it surmounted at 40 miles an hour,

dashing down the inclines at the speed of an express train, and

swerving time after time to avoid lumbering farm wagons.

At Croydon Mr. Hyde wisely slowed down.  He had covered 49 miles in

exactly fifty-five minutes, but twenty-eight minutes later the car drew

up under the Admiralty Arch.

"Room 445 is the one I want," he explained to Ross.  "I know my way

about here, you know.  I've several relations at the Admiralty.  Come

along: the car won't hurt where she is."

"Your pass, sir," demanded a Metropolitan policeman who, with a naval

pensioned petty officer, was stationed at the door.

"Haven't one," replied Mr. Hyde.  "Urgent business--see?" and he

produced the envelope, bearing the words "On His Majesty's Service", in

which was enclosed Captain Syllenger's communication.

The policeman was the essence of imperturbable dignity.

"No use, sir; you must have a pass.  They are obtainable across the

road there."

"It will mean at least twenty minutes' delay," muttered the motorist

savagely, as he turned away.  "Come on, Mr. Trefusis, let's try our

luck across the way."

As Ross descended the short flight of stone steps leading from the

lobby to the street, he nearly cannoned into a couple of naval officers

who were about to enter the building.  Suddenly remembering that he was

in uniform, the midshipman brought his right hand smartly to the peak

of his cap.  As he did so, he recognized that one of the naval men was

his father.

The recognition was mutual.

"Hullo, pater!"

"Hullo, Ross!  What brings you here?  Duty, eh?  It's the same in my

case.  Sorry I can't have you to lunch, but must catch the first train

north.  This is the first time I've come up to town since the war

started.  In any case I'm not sorry that I am not stopping the night

here.  Judging by reports, it's a jolly sight too dangerous for me.

Don't fancy being run over by a taxi in a dark main thoroughfare.  Give

me the North Sea any day.  Well, I must be moving.  Can't keep My Lords

waiting, you know.  Good-bye, Ross!"

It was Admiral Paul Trefusis' way.  Whenever he had any business on

hand that kept him from his ship, he invariably spoke in short, jerky

sentences.  Ross knew his parent's little mannerism.

"One moment, pater," he exclaimed.  "We're in an awful hurry too----"

"Don't look like it," growled the Admiral good-naturedly.  "You were

ambling out like an old shellback.  Always execute orders at the

double: that's my advice to budding midshipmen.  Well, what is it?"

As briefly as possible, Ross told his parent of the rebuff Mr. Hyde and

he had received, and of the matter that brought them at 50 miles an

hour from a remote Sussex coast-guard station.

Making a hurried excuse to his companion, the Admiral skipped up the

steps into the lobby, Ross and his fellow-traveller following closely.

The policeman naturally asked for no pass from a Flag officer in

uniform, but he was on the point of stopping his companions when the

messenger recognized the Admiral as his former captain.  His apologies

surprised even the stolid policeman.

"Don't apologize for doing your duty, my man," remarked Admiral

Trefusis.  "Hope you're fit.  Must have a yarn with you when I've more

time.  Come along, Ross."

Having seen Mr. Hyde and Ross safely to the outside of the door of Room

445, the Admiral abruptly took his departure.

In reply to a knock the door was opened by a very tired-looking clerk,

who was bravely bearing up under the strain of having to work ninety

hours a week, including Sundays.  Having explained his business, Mr.

Hyde was shown into the presence of an official whose talent was little

short of miraculous.

A dozen precise and pointed questions put him in full possession of all

the facts bearing upon the document that he required.  He touched an

electric bell.  An assistant hurried to his desk.

"Bring me the papers on the von Ruhle case," he ordered in an undertone.

In less than half an hour the transcription was completed, although the

_Capella's_ officer of the watch had not taken down the actual

commencement of the smoke-signal.  Then, having "pressed" the paper in

order to obtain a duplicate copy, the official placed it in an

envelope, which he secured with an imposing wax seal.

"No mistake about it, the war has bucked the civilian staff at the

Admiralty," observed Mr. Hyde to Ross as they gained the street.  "I

can remember a time when all you had to do was to mention someone's

name, and you had practically a free entry.  Your particular pal could

always contrive to have an hour's yarn with you, and perhaps an

interval for refreshment.  They know what working at high pressure

means now."

Hyde was more cautious on the return journey.  He was well within the

limit that he had set himself.  An hour and forty minutes later, the

car drew up outside the coast-guard station.

"Captain Syllenger presents his compliments, Mr. Hyde, and requests

your company on board," said Sub-lieutenant Barry when the _Capella's_

boat arrived to take off the midshipman.  "Ton my word, you haven't

been long.  We didn't expect you back before six o'clock."

Having received his guest, Captain Syllenger led the way to his cabin,

Barry and Ross being included in the party.  The skipper's face glowed

with satisfaction when he had opened the envelope, for the signal as

decoded was as follows:

"(words missing) closely patrolled.  Unable to provide stores here.

Will attempt removal of (word missing) from Station 123 on Friday

night.  Will signal from Station 125 at 1 a.m. on Saturday if possible.

Transports leaving by Needles Channel at daybreak."

Following this was an explanatory note.

"Station 123 is stated to be in Keyhaven Marshes.  Station 125 one mile

west of white house at Milford-on-Sea."

"Humph!" ejaculated Captain Syllenger.  "It looks as if there's trouble

in store for some gentlemen of marked Teutonic sympathies.  I only hope

we'll have a chance of being off Station 125."

CHAPTER XIX

That Friday Night

Three hours later H.M.S. _Capella_ received the following order by

wireless:--

"Await relief by _Taurus_, then proceed to Rendezvous Y, Portsmouth

Command.  _Capella_ to be temporarily attached to Western Inner Patrol."

The meaning of the message was plain to all on board.  The _Capella_

was to proceed to Rendezvous Y, which according to Admiralty

instructions was off Yarmouth, Isle of Wight, where a flotilla of small

craft was patrolling day and night, as a precautionary measure in the

unlikely event of any hostile craft forcing the formidable defences of

the western entrance to the Solent.

At eight on the following morning the _Taurus_ arrived on the station,

and with the least possible delay the _Capella_ made for the west'ard.

Only one incident marked the run.  A few miles from the Royal Sovereign

Lightship, the _Capella_ sighted a number of submarines running on the

surface.  They were on Particular Service, and although opportunities

for torpedoing a hostile surface craft were very remote, the submarines

were constantly rendering yeoman service by keeping the approaches to

the German North Sea ports under close observation.  On rare occasions,

when a German light-cruiser or destroyer did venture beyond the

protection of the mine-fields and guns of the land-batteries, British

submarines were not backward in seizing their chance of letting loose

"tinfish" against their quarry.

Having arrived off Yarmouth, Captain Syllenger reported himself to the

senior officer.  He came back beaming.  The _Capella_ was to take part

in combined sea and land operations for the capture of the German

agents, who were supplying petrol to one of the submarines, and also

for the capture of the U-boat.

The eventful Friday evening came at last.  The _Capella_, in company

with four first-class torpedo-boats, was to be ready at a signal from

Hurst to make a dash through the North Channel.  A fleet of armed

trawlers from the Poole base was to operate farther out to sea, in

order to cut off the U-boat's retreat should she be lucky enough to

escape the attentions of the _Capella_ and her consorts.

At ten o'clock the east-going tidal stream began to set through the

Needles Channel.  Half an hour later it ran with a velocity exceeding

five knots.  The _Capella_, moving at a rate equal to that of the tide,

kept about half a mile from the Isle of Wight shore, with the white,

occulting light of the Needles just visible to the north of Cliff End

Fort.

It was a perfectly calm night, overcast, but with no wind.  A dull

rumble, rising and falling in volume, could be heard from the direction

of the open sea.

"Breakers on the Shingles--a large bank on the starboard hand of the

Needles Channel," explained Barry in answer to the midshipmen's enquiry.

"Then it means that bad weather is approaching," said Ross, who had had

plenty of opportunities of observing the phenomenon of "ground swells"

on the North Cornish coast.  "If it's like this, the U-boat won't be

able to make direct communication with the shore."

The appearance of Captain Syllenger on the bridge put an end to

conversation.  The officers, by the aid of telescopes and binoculars,

kept the Hampshire shore under close observation.

To the naked eye nothing was visible but a dark bank of trees.  Not a

light was to be seen, although there were several houses in the

vicinity.  The position of Lymington, in time of peace discernible by

reason of a strong blaze of light, could only be determined by the

feeble glow of the high red light marking the course up the river.

"It's nearly midnight," observed the skipper.  "If our friends the

Germans are going to shift their supplies from here to Milford, they'll

have to be pretty sharp.  Seems to me like a case of 'nuthin' doing'."

Hardly were the words out of his mouth, when the silence was broken by

a peremptory hail.  The sound travelled clearly across the water,

although the person shouting must have been a mile and a half away.

Then came the jumbled noise of men's voices, quickly followed by two

rifle-shots.  The voices then died away, and, as far as the listeners

on the _Capella_ could hear, all was quiet.

"That's soon over, whatever it was, sir," remarked Barry.

"Hurst calling up, sir," announced a signalman, as a light blinked

rapidly from the fort guarding the Hampshire side of the narrow

channel.  It was the order to proceed at full speed to the position

previously decided upon.

Although the torpedo-boats were speedy craft, the _Capella_ left them

behind "hands down".  Fortunately there were no search-lights to baffle

her quartermaster, for those of both Hurst and the batteries on the

Isle of Wight shore had been previously switched off.  Since the Needle

Channel was closed to all mercantile shipping, the _Capella_ could, and

did, without risk, extinguish her navigation lights.  Only the

phosphorescent spray from her sharp cutwater marked her position.

Suddenly she ported helm, just in time to avoid a collision with a long

dark shape that proved to be an unterseeboot in the act of diving.  Her

commander had detected the pulsations of the _Capella_ motors, but he

was too late.

Round spun the patrol vessel.  From her quarter, a long length of

something that resembled an exaggerated string of sausages was paid

out.  At the rate that the _Capella_ was circling, it was impossible

for the U-boat to escape from her toils.  Dive to a safe depth she

could not, since the maximum depth was but 5 3/4 fathoms.

The last of the "sausages", to which was attached stout flexible wire,

disappeared beneath the water.  Then a jerk upon the wire announced the

gratifying fact that the fugitive submarine had fouled the string of

sausages, which was in reality a number of gun-cotton charges, primed

and connected to a powerful battery by means of an insulated wire.

Sub-lieutenant Fox, who was standing by the firing-key, needed no

orders.  His fingers pressed the ebonite disc.  A hundred yards astern

of the _Capella_ a column of water was flying high in the air, followed

by a tremendous roar.  For one minute the vessel rocked violently in

the agitated waters, then, circling, she made for the spot under which

the explosion had occurred.  With a splash a mark-buoy was dropped

overboard to indicate the position of the shattered U-boat.  By this

time the torpedo-boats had arrived on the scene.

"A deuce of a commotion on shore, Barry," exclaimed the skipper.

"I should be surprised if there were not, sir," replied the Sub.  "The

racket was enough to smash every window within a couple of miles of the

beach.  They're signalling, sir."

"German submarine's boat rowing off.  Intercept her," was the signal

spelt out by the long and short flashes.

"More work," remarked Barry.  "It's like looking for a needle in a

bottle of hay.  Shall I order the searchlight to be run, sir?"

"Very good," replied Captain Syllenger.  "But before you do so you

might signal to Hurst, and request that all available search-light be

brought to bear in this direction."

Soon the hitherto pitch-dark sea was flooded in a blaze of light.

Giant beams from the Isle of Wight shore joined with those of Hurst

Castle to sweep slowly across the waves, supplementing the twin rays

projected from the two search-lights on the _Capella's_ bridge.

It was indeed a brilliant spectacle.  The _Capella_ and the

torpedo-boats seemed outlined in silver.  Along the shore as far as

Hengistbury Head, the low line of cliffs was thrown into strong relief

against the dark background of sky.  The crest of every wave seemed as

if made of delicate filigree work.  Nothing afloat could hope to escape

detection within the radius of action of the concentrated millions of

candle-power search-lights.

Less than a mile away, and about the same distance from shore, a small

black object bobbed buoyantly upon the waves.  It was the ill-fated

U-boat's canvas dinghy, apparently empty.

Down bore the _Capella_, her search-lights fixed upon the object of her

search.  The boat was not deserted.  Lying at full length on the bottom

boards were two men, who had adopted that position, in the vain hope of

escaping detection.

As the patrol vessel approached, they sat up and raised dolorous cries

of "Mercy, Englishmen!"

"Chuck it, Fritz!" shouted one of the British seamen.  "You won't get

hurt.  You ain't in a strafed submarine now, you know."

"Silence!" ordered the skipper.  "Stand by there.  Get that boat

aboard.  See they don't sling anything overboard."

There was precious little that the German seamen could throw overboard,

for when the canvas boat was placed on the Capellus deck it was found

to contain only a pair of oars and two crutches.  What the German

sailors hoped to do had they escaped detection was a matter for

conjecture, for without a compass, food, and water, and in a frail

cockle-shell with every indication of bad weather approaching, certain

death stared them in the face.

Finding themselves well treated, the Germans grew quite communicative.

They freely admitted that they expected to obtain a considerable

quantity of petrol from their agents ashore.  They did not know their

names, or if they did they professed complete ignorance on the point.

Their craft, numbered for some vague reason U7, was built at Altona,

and completed only a fortnight previously.  In addition to her normal

crew of twenty-eight officers and men, she carried five officers and

ten men for instructional purposes.  She was one of four that had come

round Cape Wrath and the West and South coasts of Ireland, rather than

risk the hazardous passage through the Straits of Dover, or the almost

equally dangerous North Channel between Scotland and Ireland.  Two of

the five were missing; the other was supposed to be in the

neighbourhood of Cape Ushant.  U7's particular mission was to intercept

transports that were known to be leaving Southampton for the French

coast.

The men admitted that they had been tricked.  A light had been flashed

seaward, and although the signal was not strictly in accordance with

the prearranged plan, it was sufficiently accurate to delude the U7's

Lieutenant-Commander.

The German officer had shown considerable skill and audacity in closing

with the shore so close to the numerous and powerful batteries.  He

dwelt upon the almost absolute certainty of the gunners devoting their

attention solely to the Needles Channel, and since it was a little past

the time of dead low water the intervening Shingles Bank, which in

places rears itself 20 feet above the sea, would afford an efficient

screen from the search-lights.

But he had reckoned without the patrol vessels.  Barely had the

U-boat's collapsible rowed a hundred yards from her parent when the

_Capella_ raced up, and promptly put another hostile submarine to her

credit.

Early next morning, the _Capella_ having returned to her station off

Yarmouth to await orders, Vernon Haye went ashore in charge of the

whaler in order to pick up mails and secure fresh provisions.

Arriving alongside the little stone quay, he left a boat-keeper in

charge and proceeded towards the post office, while the coxswain and

the rest of the men went in search of the much-desired commodities in

the shape of fresh butter and milk.

Just as Vernon was about to enter the post office, he nearly collided

with a very sleepy-looking subaltern in the uniform of the Royal

Garrison Artillery.

"By Jove, Barraclough!" he exclaimed.  "I didn't expect to see you

here."

Barraclough was an Upper Sixth man at the same school as Haye, but had

left four terms previously.  On the outbreak of war he had applied for,

and had obtained, a commission, and had been stationed, somewhat to his

disappointment, at Hurst Castle.  Beyond a few false alarms and a

liberal experience in target practice, his existence at that isolated

fortress bordered on the monotonous.  He was simply on thorns to be

able to proceed to the Front; the probability was that he would have to

"do his bit" for his country at a spot within 20 miles of his home

until the termination of the war.

"Bless my soul, Haye!" he rejoined.  "Whoever would have thought to see

you here, and in naval get-up.  How long have you been in the Service,

and what ship are you on?"

"Only a few weeks; and I'm on the _Capella_ with Trefusis."

"Trefusis, eh?  Well, he's a lucky boy to have an Admiral for a father.

And the _Capella_?  Then you were in last night's affair?  I heard they

bagged the submarine."

"Rather!" declared Vernon proudly.

Barraclough stifled a prodigious yawn.

"Jolly glad to hear it.  'Scuse me, but I'm beastly tired.  Had a night

of it after those spies across yonder.  Didn't turn in till three, and

at six I had to cross from Hurst to Vic.--that's Fort Victoria, you

know--on duty."

"Did you collar them?" asked the midshipman eagerly.

The subaltern yawned again.

"No," he drawled.  "Worse luck, we didn't; but we had some fun.  You

know we were warned to watch Keyhaven marshes--and a dreary spot it is.

Worse than the most dismal flats on the Essex coast, which is saying a

lot.  Well, before I tell you what happened, I ought to describe the

place.  It's a marsh, with patches of dry ground thickly covered with

furze, that extends from Keyhaven to Lymington River--about four miles.

It is separated from the sea--or rather mud-flats, covered at high

tide--by a low bank on which is an apology for a footpath.

"Our orders were to post a squad at a certain point where the spies

were supposed to have hidden a quantity of petrol.  The place in

question was close to a rifle-butt.  Men were detailed to guard all

roads leading to the marsh, and to allow all traffic, whether

motor-cars, carts, or pedestrians, to pass unchallenged.  The sentries

were on no account to show themselves, except to hold up everything and

everyone coming _from_ the marsh.

"Other men were told off to watch the three available roads between

Keyhaven and Milford, where the submarine was expected to send ashore

for her stores, so you see the U-boat didn't stand much chance of

getting what she wanted.  She copped something she didn't expect.

"As soon as it was dark, my squad left Hurst by motor-boat and landed

near the toll-house at Keyhaven.  It was almost dead low water, you

know, or we might have been able to save ourselves a long tramp--you

couldn't call it a march.

"We followed the wretched footpath, slipping on the slimy mud, and

either tumbling over each other or else side-slipping into the morass,

which was a jolly sight worse.  To make a long story short, we took up

our position, which was in the middle of a circular clump of furze

within 50 yards of the butts, at ten o'clock.

"There we stuck for nearly two mortal hours, and not so much as a

chance of having a cigarette.  Of course the men were frightfully keen,

and it took me all my time to stop them from chin-wagging.  Some of

them began to get jumpy, swearing they saw all manner of men and things.

"I had just looked at my watch--luminous face, thank goodness--when my

sergeant whispered to me that someone was approaching.  It was then

close on twelve.  He was right.  There were three men ambling

cautiously along the sea-wall.  They were talking softly.  Once one of

them stopped, bent under the lee of a furze bush and lit a cigarette,

which seemed a rummy thing for a spy to do unless it was a prearranged

signal.

"We let them come on until they got within 20 yards, then up popped my

sergeant.

"'Halt, who goes there?' he shouted, loud enough to be heard a couple

of miles away.

"Bless me if the three fellows hadn't the cheek to answer in exactly

the same words, although they didn't sound particularly cheerful over

the job; and, instead of halting, one of them came on, holding a stick

above his head.  The others didn't seem very keen to follow him, but

began jabbering away as hard as they could.

"So I gave orders for a couple of shots to be fired over their heads,

just to let them know what to expect when they deliberately ignore a

challenge.  But instead of 'hands up' they bolted, with our men after

them.

"Then I had good reason to bless that blessed marsh, for between us and

the rifle-butt was a deep ditch filled with water, and a nice wire

fence on the other side.  Half a dozen of us, myself included, were

floundering up to our waists; the others were lucky enough to avoid the

ditch by making straight for the path.  But we had the fellows all

right."

"The spies?" asked Vernon.

Barraclough yawned, and then laughed mirthlessly.

"Nuthin' doing," he replied.  "They were three members of a local

defence corps engaged in patrolling the marshes.  Goodness only knows

what for, for they hadn't any weapon with them except walking-sticks.

Perhaps 'twas as well, though, for they might have let rip in their

excitement.  When a man's nerves are all upset it's not safe for him to

have his finger on the trigger of a rifle, you know."

"But the spies?" asked Vernon.

"Not a sign of 'em," replied the subaltern.  "If they were anywhere

about, they must have sheered off pretty quickly when they heard the

racket.  An hour later an orderly brought us word to return to the

fort, so we guessed that something had taken place between a

patrol-ship and the submarine.  But I must be on the move.  Regards to

Trefusis.  If you've a chance to get ashore on the other side, look me

up."

CHAPTER XX

To the Rescue

Twelve hours later found H.M.S. _Capella_ back on her station off

Beachy Head.

The long-threatened gale had burst with great violence upon the South

coast.  Long crested breakers surged towards the chalky cliffs,

thundering with terrific force against the sheer face of the rocks.

Seaward, as far as the eye could reach, was nothing but a confused

tumble of foam, backed by a lowering bank of ragged and sombre clouds.

The _Capella_ and her consorts had to "stick it".  Without orders they

dare not seek shelter in Newhaven harbour.  All they could do was to

forge slowly ahead, keeping bows on to the furious seas.  In spite of

her shallow draught, the _Capella_ was an excellent sea boat, although

inclined to be "jumpy".  Frequently green waves broke over the fo'c'sle

and surged aft as far as the deck-house under the bridge; but with

unfailing regularity the stanch vessel would shake herself clear of the

tons of water that had invaded her deck, to be ready to receive the

next contribution from the hand of King Neptune.

Nevertheless, while the gale lasted it was a time of discomfort.  One

thing for which the crew were thankful was the fact that it was still

September, and the gale was not one of those wintry varieties which are

so trying to the hardy patrollers of the North Sea.

Everything had to be battened down.  'Tween-decks the air was stifling,

and reeked of fumes from the motors.  It was impossible for a man to

stand unsupported.  Anything that had not been securely lashed would be

sure to be flung across the deck by the erratic motion.  No hot meals

were obtainable.  Officers and crew had to eat as best they might,

without the use of articles of civilization such as plates and similar

things.

Ross and Vernon saw very little of each other during the gale, except

for a brief interval during the changes of the watch on deck.  Each

enjoyed his "trick" on deck, as he crouched behind the bulging

storm-dodgers and faced the howling wind and the stinging spray.  It

was greatly to be preferred to being below, cooped up in an atmosphere

which resembled that of an underground scullery on washing-day, with

the odours of petrol and lubricating oil thrown in as extras.

"One thing we've to be thankful for," remarked Barry, "and that is that

it's a sou'wester.  It minimizes the chance of being blown up by a

derelict mine."

"How is that?" asked Ross.

"A sou'easter's the brute for that.  Brings with it dozens of German

mines that have broken adrift from the Belgian coast.  When I was

stationed at Great Yarmouth we had the same game in easterly gales.  It

was nothing unusual to find twenty of the brutes lying ashore; and on

several occasions they have exploded on coming into contact with the

rocks, and then, especially at night, everyone thought that the Germans

had at last ventured to risk 'The Day'.

"I remember one that came ashore a few miles from Lowestoft.  It was a

whopper, of a different type from the rest.  An Engineer officer

brought a dozen young subalterns down to see it and give them an

object-lesson.  He talked for the best part of an hour, explaining its

construction, and laying particular stress upon the need of the

greatest caution when handling it.  Finally he proceeded to explode it

electrically.  The circuit of the battery was tested and found to be in

perfect order, and the wires were then connected with the detonator of

the mine, after the tube containing the fulminate of mercury had been

removed.

"The whole crowd took cover.  The circuit was completed, but the mine

didn't budge.  They tried three times, and finally came to the

conclusion that the thing was a dud.

"Then a squad of soldiers took pot-shots at it until it was fairly

riddled with bullet holes, but still the blessed thing wouldn't

explode.  Eventually it was decided to remove the mine to a laboratory

for examination, and a team of mules was requisitioned to drag it off

the beach.

"One of the mules suddenly took it into his head to be a little bit

premature, for he lashed out, broke away from the traces, and pelted

down the beach.  When the brute came to the place where the mine lay,

he found that the tackle which the men had already rove to shift it was

in his way.  Possibly the sight of a rope upset him, for he backed and

lashed out with his hind legs--and up went the mine with a terrific

bang.  They never found any of the pieces of the mule."

At length, as is invariably the case, the gale blew itself out, and,

although the sea still ran high, the absence of broken water made it

possible for the hatchways to be kept open.

The behaviour of the _Capella_ and her consorts was a matter for

congratulation.  They had stood the test remarkably well, and had

proved themselves good all-weather craft, provided that they could be

kept head to wind.

A week later the _Capella_ returned to Southampton to replenish her

stores, and after three days in port she received orders to proceed to

the French coast and patrol off Cape Levi, where the presence of a

hostile submarine had been reported.

This intelligence was serious.  It meant that, once again, an

unterseeboot had made its way into the English Channel, and was lying

on the track of the British transports and hospital ships running

between Southampton and Rouen.

It took the _Capella_ two hours only to run from The Nab to within

sight of the French coast.  Even then her motors were not running at

the maximum number of revolutions.  Extreme speed was only resorted to

when actually engaged in submarine hunting.

As the vessel closed with the grey cliffs of Normandy, Ross suddenly

shouted: "Submarine on the port bow!"

Less than two cables' length away could be discerned the twin

periscopes and a portion of the conning-tower.  The submarine was not

forging ahead; it was simply stationary, except for a slight movement

caused by the action of the waves.  It certainly was not a British

craft.  It might be French.  The odds were that it was German, since

submarines belonging to the allied nations were not in the habit of

keeping awash, unless in the presence of an enemy.

Quickly the guns, which were already cleared for action, were trained

upon the visible part of the submarine; but as she made no attempt to

move, Captain Syllenger refrained from giving the order to open fire.

Thrice the _Capella_ circled round the mysterious craft, at the same

time gradually closing, since she had nothing to fear from the

discharge of a torpedo.

"I believe she's abandoned, sir," said Barry.

The _Capella_ stopped.  Preparations were being made for the lowering

of a boat, when one of the seamen shouted:

"It's a dud, sir; a blessed decoy-bird!"

The man was right.  Upon investigation, the submarine was found to be

nothing more than a couple of barrels covered with painted canvas.  Two

thick poles passing vertically through them, and weighted at the

lowermost ends to give the necessary stability, served as periscopes.

"There's a real submarine knocking about, I'll swear," said the

skipper.  "Put a shot into those barrels, Morgan."

One shell was sufficient.  Little more than a hundred chips floating on

the surface was left of the decoy.

The _Capella_ was about to resume her course when a warning cry was

heard:

"Torpedo coming, sir!"

From a point bearing half a mile on the vessel's port quarter, the

track of the on-coming torpedo was clearly discernible.  The _Capella_,

being without way, would undoubtedly have fallen a victim had it not

been for her light draught, for before she could forge ahead the

missile passed under her keel.  Its track could be followed as far as

the eye could reach, which showed that it was a modern weapon propelled

with superheated air and having a range of about five miles.

Straight for the source of the missile, tore the British craft, but her

effort to grapple with the unterseeboot was in vain.  The submarine had

dived immediately.  No sounds betrayed her presence in the vicinity.

Had the U-boat been moving, the churning of her propellers would have

been distinctly audible.

"She's got away, worse luck," growled Sub-lieutenant Fox.  "I wonder

how she did it?  It's too deep for her to sound, and she can't be

moving under her own power."

"We'll have her right enough," rejoined Barry, the optimist.  "A light

haze and a calm sea is what we want.  We'll run her down in less than a

week, you mark my words."

Four days passed.  The _Capella_ kept her station almost without

incident.  Ship after ship, deeply laden with troops and munitions,

entered the sand-banked estuary of the Seine, having been escorted thus

far by destroyers.  Ship after ship, more lightly burdened, left the

river, homeward bound.  Amongst them were hospital ships, clearly

distinguishable by their broad green bands and conspicuous red crosses

on both bows and quarters.  A big action had taken place "somewhere in

France", and the passing of the Red Cross vessels was the aftermath of

a dearly-bought victory.

Yet nothing occurred to threaten the constant stream of shipping.  It

seemed reasonable to surmise that either the U-boat had met with an

accident or else that she had transferred her energies to another area.

Meanwhile Ross and Vernon had been working hard, improving their

seamanship.  Under the instruction of the two sub-lieutenants they were

making rapid progress in navigation; they could fix their position by

the use of a sextant, were able to use the semaphore, and, generally,

competent to carry out the duties required as midshipmen of the watch.

Captain Syllenger had long before overcome his prejudices against the

sons of Flag Officers--at least in their case--and even expressed his

willingness to grant them each a certificate of proficiency, should

they wish to transfer to one of the cruisers of the Royal Navy.

At length the _Capella_ received orders for recall to her station off

Beachy Head.  She was to put into Havre to revictual that day, leaving

at 9 a.m. on the morrow.

The lads were heartily glad when the _Capella_ left the malodorous

_bassin à flotte_.  The irksomeness of lying in the harbour at Le Havre

palled upon them, even after a few hours.  They yearned for the open

sea almost from the time their ship made fast alongside the grimy quay.

Forty minutes after leaving French waters, the _Capella_ sighted a

large cargo-boat steaming northwards.  She was high in ballast and

rolling like a barrel.  On bringing glasses to bear upon her, the

_Capella's_ officers found that she was the _Orontabella_, one of the

vessels chartered by the British Government and fitted as a

horse-transport ship.  She was doing 16 knots to the _Capella's_ 34,

and when first sighted was nearly five miles off.

Suddenly a low rumble was heard by the crew of the patrol-vessel.

Telescopes and binoculars that had just been laid aside were again

brought into action, and it was seen that the transport was sinking

rapidly by the stern.  She had been torpedoed under the starboard

quarter.  The terrific impact of the explosion had torn a large hole,

besides shattering the rudder and one of the propellers, while all her

boats in davits were rendered useless by the concussion.

It was a matter of but a few moments before she made her final plunge.

Already signals were fluttering from her stumpy masts--the well-known

N.C. (in distress; want immediate assistance) and A.R. (boats are stove

in).

Captain Syllenger gave a quick glance astern.  There were other

vessels, but low down on the horizon.  To expect succour from them was

for the present out of the question.  He had a double task: to attempt

to destroy the aggressor, and to rescue the transport's crew.

"Prepare to lower boats!" he shouted.  "A midshipman and a couple of

hands in each.  Guns' crews stand by!"

Clang, chang, went the engine-room telegraph.  Like a greyhound, the

_Capella_ increased her speed, until she was within a quarter of a mile

of the foundering vessel.  Then reversing engines, she almost lost way

at less than a cable's length from the transport.

By this time Ross and Vernon were in their respective boats.  Before

way was off the ship the falls were paid out and the disengaging gear

cast off.

"Give way, men," ordered Ross.

His scanty crew, for more men could not well be spared, "gave way" with

a will, gaining a couple of lengths before his chum was able to push

off.

With hardly a pause the _Capella_ dashed off, quickly increasing her

pace to full speed ahead, in her quest for the U-boat that had launched

the deadly torpedo.

The _Orontabella's_ stern was now under water.  She had a pronounced

list to starboard.  Dense volumes of smoke and steam, pouring from her

funnels and hatchways, showed that the water had already invaded her

boiler-room.  Above the hiss of the scalding vapour and the rush of

escaping air, could be heard the terrified neighing of a dozen or more

wounded horses, for whom no escape was possible.

Clustering on the fo'c'sle were about twenty or thirty men, the

officers and crew who had survived the explosion; for the death-roll,

especially in the engine-room and stokehold, was very high, men being

overwhelmed by the inrush of water before they could scramble up the

steep ladder and through the narrow hatchway.

The waiting men showed no signs of panic.  Those who could swim had not

troubled to don their cork life-belts, but were calmly engaged in

lashing their life-saving devices round the shoulders of their less

fortunate comrades.

[Illustration: THE SINKING OF THE "ORONTABELLA" (missing from book)]

Ross ordered his men to back towards the foundering vessel.  He

realized that at any moment the transport might plunge suddenly, and

the danger of being dragged down by the suction was a thing he had to

avoid.  There was also a risk of the boat being swamped by the men as

they clambered on board.

"Jump!" he shouted.  "Not too many at a time."

Three men accepted the invitation: two good swimmers and a non-swimmer.

The former, grasping their struggling companion by the shoulders,

struck out without much difficulty and reached Ross's boat, where they

were quickly hauled into safety.

Setting the rescued men to take an oar each, for there were several to

spare lying on the thwarts, Ross took the whaler closer in, since he

had now more means of propulsion at his command.

Four more followed, and were picked up by Vernon's men.  Meanwhile the

bows of the _Orontabella_ were rising high out of the water, as the

stern sank correspondingly deeper, until those of the officers and crew

who still remained on board had to cling desperately to the rails to

prevent themselves slipping into the maelstrom that surged over the

submerged part of the sinking ship.

Suddenly the vessel dived.  Where a few seconds previously a towering

mass of black and red plating rose high above the boats, there hung a

cloud of smoke, steam, and spray, while all around the water was

thrashed white with foam.

"Give way, men!" shouted Ross.

The rowers were too late.  Before the boat could pull clear of the

scene of disaster, a vicious, crested wave, so hollow that the lean

quarters of the whaler were unable to rise to it, poured into the frail

craft.

The next instant Ross and his crew were struggling in the confusion of

the broiling sea.

Vernon, although farther from the spot, narrowly escaped the fate of

his chum.  It was surprising what a terrific commotion the

_Orontabella_ caused at the last.  For some minutes he could see

nothing beyond the tips of the blades of the oars.  Everything else was

enveloped in smoke, steam, and spray.

Gradually the waves subsided and the wind dispersed the pall of vapour.

The sea was dotted with the heads of swimmers.  Ross's boat, with her

stem and stern-posts just visible above the surface, was waterlogged,

yet retained sufficient buoyancy to support half a dozen men.

Here, indeed, was a pretty pickle.  At the very most, Vernon's boat

would hold fifteen or sixteen men.  The _Capella_ was almost out of

sight.  The whole attention of her officers and crew would be centred

upon the U-boat.  So long as there was any indication of the latter's

whereabouts, the patrol-vessel would cling tenaciously to her quest.

There was very little left floating from the sunken ship.  A few

gratings, handspikes, a couple of breakers, and fragments of the

shattered boats, but nothing substantial enough to support a man above

water; and in mid-Channel, although it was only September, the sea was

too cold to enable the swimmers to keep afloat very long without almost

certain danger of cramp.

Vernon looked around for his chum.  He saw him sharing an oar with one

of the crew.

"Come on, my lads!" shouted Ross encouragingly.  "We'll hike her up.

Half a dozen of you who have life-belts come round this side, and when

I say 'All together!' lift for all you're worth."

The men obeyed as quickly as they could in the circumstances.  Finding

that they could easily keep afloat, the non-swimmers had regained their

confidence.  Piloted by those who could swim, the men ranged themselves

along one gunwale of the waterlogged whaler.

"All ready?" asked Ross, whose knowledge of how to empty a waterlogged

Canadian canoe prompted him to try a large, heavy boat.  "Together!"

Up rose the boat's gunwale as high as the men's arms could reach, but

with a dull swish the whaler resumed its former position.  In lifting

one side the other had dropped deeply beneath the surface, and the

attempt to shake out the water had ended in failure.

"Now then," ordered Vernon, taking his turn to direct operations.  "All

swimmers get overboard for a few minutes.  Those with life-belts get on

board, and take off your belts."

In five minutes a dozen cork life-belts were available.  Manoeuvring

his boat alongside the waterlogged whaler, Vernon gave directions for

the belts to be lashed underneath the thwarts, so that they were

completely submerged.  Then taking the whaler's painter he hove taut

until, added to the lifting powers of the cork and the upward strain on

the ropes, the gunwale rose a good three inches above the water.

This done, one of the _Capella's_ men, armed with a baler, began

throwing out the water from the whaler.  In another five minutes the

boat showed sufficient buoyancy to allow two more hands to clamber on

board.  They, too, baled vigorously, with the result that once more the

whaler was free from water.

Between the two boats, all the survivors of the _Orontabella_ were

easily accommodated; but when at length the midshipmen looked for the

_Capella_, the patrol-boat was nowhere to be seen.

CHAPTER XXI

Adrift in the Channel

"She'll be back for us soon," declared Vernon optimistically,

addressing his chum, for the two boats were within twenty feet of each

other.  "Can you see any signs of her now?"

Ross stood upright in the stern-sheets and, shading his eyes with his

hand, gave a careful look in the direction where the _Capella_ was

supposed to be.

"No," he answered.  "And I cannot see any signs of the other vessels we

saw some time ago.  We'd better let the men rest on their oars."

Unknown to the two midshipmen, they had for the last hour and a half

been in the grip of the strong west-going tide that surges along the

French coast.  In that interval they had been carried out of the course

of the vessels they had sighted, and were some four or six miles from

the spot where the _Orontabella_ had sunk.

Another hour passed.  The men who had been in the water took the

opportunity of drying their clothing in the hot sunshine.  They treated

their misfortune lightly, making very little reference to the loss of

their vessel.  One would have thought that being torpedoed was almost

an everyday occurrence.

As the minutes slipped by, it began to occur to Ross and his chum that

the _Capella_ had missed them entirely.  In another few hours night

would be coming on, and the prospect of spending ten hours of darkness

in a couple of open boats in mid-Channel was not at all alluring.

Each boat was equipped with compass, lead-line, signal-book, lamp, box

of biscuits, and beaker of water.  None of these articles belonging to

Ross's boat had suffered, in spite of their being immersed, except the

lamp, for the provisions were in watertight boxes.  Masts and sails

were not in the boats, having been left on board the _Capella_ when the

rescuers put off hurriedly on their errand of mercy.

"What's the best thing to be done, skipper?" asked Ross, addressing the

master of the _Orontabella_.

"Well, sir, since you ask me," was the reply, "I'd shape a course due

north.  We'd be in the track of craft making up and down Channel before

it gets dark.  If we don't fall in with any vessel, we can carry on.

'Taint so very far to land, considering the number of hands we've got

in the boats."

Quickly the available oars were manned, the men being told off in

relays to row for half an hour at a time, while the skipper of the

torpedoed boat relieved Ross at the yoke-lines.  The mate, who had been

picked up by the other boat, was also able to give Vernon a spell.

At six o'clock, a biscuit and a small quantity of water were served out

to each man, and preparations were made for the approaching night.

Vernon's boat, which possessed the only lantern that would burn, was to

take the lead as soon as darkness set in, the light enabling the whaler

to keep in touch with her consort.

"Jolly funny where the _Capella's_ got to," remarked Ross to the

skipper.  "With her speed she could search a couple of hundred square

miles by this time."

"'Spose she wasn't torpedoed?" asked the _Orontabella's_ master.

"No jolly fear!" replied the midshipman decidedly.  "She's

torpedo-proof.  We've had plenty of them fired at us, but never the

least danger of being hit."

"It's a good thing the sea's calm," continued the skipper.  "We're

doing a good four knots.  Twelve hours at the very most ought to bring

us in sight of the Wight, but we've dropped a long way to lee'ard.

P'raps it's as well, for it's no joke to be in the thick of the

cross-Channel traffic at night, with only a tuppenny dip to light us.

Good heavens!  What's that?"

Less than fifty yards from the boat a pole-like object, throwing off a

double feather of spray, was forging through the water.

"A periscope, sir!" shouted half a dozen voices.

Ross did not require to be told that.  With considerable misgivings, he

saw the metal shaft rise higher and higher out of the water; then the

tip of an ensign-staff, followed almost simultaneously by the snout and

conning-tower of a large German submarine.  Finally the unterseeboot

rose to the surface, revealing her entire length, which was not less

than three hundred feet.

She slowed down.  The aperture in her conning-tower opened and a couple

of officers appeared.  From hatchways fore and aft, seamen clad in grey

fearnought coats came tumbling on deck, greeting the British with jibes

and laughter.

"So you getting on, Englishmen!" exclaimed a leutnant.  "Still it is

long vay to land, hein?  An' where vos der _Capella_?  Suppose I tell

you: we her haf sent to der bottom.  Goot night, ver' goot night.  Our

ver' kind regards to Jellicoe."

The U-boat forged ahead, then, getting way, made off at high speed.  In

a quarter of an hour she was out of sight.

"I suppose those fellows were telling the truth, old man," called out

Ross, addressing his chum.

"'Fraid so," replied Vernon.  "They had her name pat, so it looks as if

the poor old ship's done for.  But, I say, what a whopper of a

submarine!"

"One of the new type, I should fancy," said the skipper of the

_Orontabella_.  "I shouldn't be surprised if she were a mine-layer as

well."

Darkness fell upon the scene.  The men rowed doggedly, Vernon setting

the course by the simple expedient of keeping the Pole Star in line

with the boat's stem.  It saved the strain of peering into the compass

bowl, and in any case the boats were bound to hit the English coast,

unless they were swamped or run down.

Throughout the long night the steady progress was maintained.  It was

horribly cold.  Most of the men were lightly clad in imperfectly dried

garments.  Both Ross and Vernon were glad when the officers of the

_Orontabella_ relieved them, since they could take turn at the oars and

derive a certain amount of warmth from the exertion.

Day dawned at last, a brilliant pink sky that betokened bad weather

before the day was out.  Away on the starboard bow could be discerned a

grey cliff surmounted by dark hills.  It was the Isle of Wight, distant

about six miles off.

With the appearance of the sun the wind freshened, and soon developed

into a strong breeze dead in their teeth.  Spray began to fly over the

bows, soon to be followed by green seas, that necessitated constant

baling.  It was quite evident that every yard of that six miles meant

desperate work, with the chances of being swamped before the boat

reached land.

The men, weakened by hunger and exposure, stuck gamely to their task,

yet after another half an hour's hard pulling the boats seemed no

nearer their object.  They were barely holding their own against the

wind and waves.

"What's to be done now?" asked Ross, consulting the experienced

skipper.  Although the midshipman was in charge, he was not above

asking the advice of a man who had been to sea almost as many years as

the lad had been days.  "We're hardly making headway, and the sea's

beating up fast."

"And the men are almost done up," added the skipper.  "It's bound to be

worse before it gets better.  I would suggest that we ride to a

sea-anchor, and trust to luck to be picked up."

The men quickly got to work.  A triangle was composed of six oars in

pairs lashed together, two of the boat's gratings being secured between

the ash spars.  To the apex the anchor was made fast, in order to make

the sea-anchor float in a vertical position, its weight compensated by

the use of the now empty water-beaker as a float.

Secured by three spans of equal length, which in turn were bent to the

boat's painter, the sea-anchor was dropped overboard.  For some

distance the whaler drifted to leeward, until held by the strain of the

painter she rode head to wind, and in comparative safety in the wake of

the floating breakwater.

Vernon's boat then came close alongside.  Her painter was caught and

secured, allowing her to ride astern.

The crews were then at liberty to rest, with the knowledge that their

drift was little more than half a knot.  Yet every two hours they would

be drifting a mile farther from shore, unless their plight were

observed by passing vessels.

By this time the sea was running high.  At one moment the whaler would

be tossing high upon the rounded crest of a wave, with the other boat

deep in the trough.  At the next, nothing was to be seen from the

whaler save an incline of green water and a canopy of dark-grey sky.

On either side the crests were white with foam, yet, thanks to the

sea-anchor, hardly a drop of water was taken in over the boats'

gunwales.

The men sat in silence, turning their backs to the keen wind.  A few

who had tobacco smoked.  Those who had not were glad to chew the small

quantity given them by their more fortunate comrades.  As for Ross and

Vernon, they were glad to doze, lying on the damp bottom-boards with

their heads pillowed on their arms.

Ross was almost asleep when he was aroused by one of the men announcing

that a vessel was in sight.  At the prospect of rescue, all hands were

alert.  The man was right, for, as the whaler rose on the crests of the

waves, a dark, grey shape could be discerned through the mirk at a

distance of about a couple of miles.

Quickly the shape resolved itself into a large four-funnelled cruiser

pelting down-Channel at full speed.  Unless she altered her course she

would pass within a hundred yards of the boats.

"Lash a shirt to the boat-hook, lads!" ordered Ross.

A few moments of intense anxiety followed.  Then a groan of

disappointment rose from the men as the cruiser ported helm.

She was then a couple of miles to windward.  The smoke from her funnels

drifted around the boats, making it impossible for the derelict men to

see what she was doing, until the evil-smelling haze dispersed, showing

the cruiser less than two cables' length away and bearing down towards

them.

From her after bridge a seaman was semaphoring vigorously.

"Will slow down to windward of you," read the message.

"Oars, lads!" ordered Ross.

The bowman of each boat promptly cut the painter.  With renewed spirit

the rowers bent to their work, and soon the boats were alongside and

under the lee of H.M.S. _Oxford_, armoured cruiser of the County class.

By the aid of bowlines the rescued men were quickly hauled over the

side.  Without delay the _Capella's_ boats were cut adrift, and the

cruiser proceeded on her way.

CHAPTER XXII

An Unexpected Capture

"I can see no possibility of landing you at present," said the officer

of the watch, after Ross had reported the events that had led up to the

rescue of the two boats.  "We're under sealed orders.  We have to make

for a certain rendezvous at full speed.  When we arrive we shall know

where we are bound for--until then we are quite in the dark.  We'll

wireless, however, and let the Commander-in-Chief at Portsmouth know

that you are safe."

"Have you any news of the _Capella_?"

"Yes; she was mined while in pursuit of a submarine.  It is a dickens

of a puzzle to know why, for our sweepers were over there early that

morning and never found a single mine.  Whatever it was, it was not so

powerful as they generally are, for the _Capella_ was able to make for

shore and run aground within a few miles of Barfleur.  All hands were

saved, luckily, but I'm afraid this gale will do for her entirely.

It's blowing great guns."

"Then those fellows on the unterseeboot were wrong," remarked Vernon.

"They said she had gone down with all hands.  We believe that the

submarine is a mine-layer, and perhaps it was one of her mines that the

old _Capella_ bumped against."

"Let's hope the patrol-vessels will settle her," rejoined the officer

of the watch.  "But you must be awfully knocked up.  I'll introduce you

to your new messmates, and they'll give you a shake-down in the

steerage flat.  The _Orontabella's_ officers can mess with the

'warrants', and the men will be berthed for'ard."

The Lieutenant stepped to the top of the ladder from the navigation

bridge.  A couple of midshipmen were standing on the superstructure,

watching with professional interest the splicing of a six-inch hawser.

"Mr. Sefton!" sang out the officer of the watch.

The midshipman ran up the ladder and saluted.

"Your messmates for the time being," continued the Lieutenant, after he

had formally introduced Trefusis and Haye.  "They've had a pretty rough

time, and they are jolly peckish, I know."

Midshipman Sefton led the two chums below, and piloted them into a very

long room on the main deck.  It was plainly, nay scantily furnished,

and appeared at first sight to be utterly cheerless.  Possibly the idea

was heightened by the fact that frequently the scuttles were obscured

by the seas that slapped viciously against the cruiser's sides.

"This is the gun-room," explained Sefton apologetically.  "We've had to

clear it out pretty thoroughly, you know.  No knick-knacks or

pretty-pretties in war time.  Sorry the other fellows aren't here.

We're four one-stripers, three midshipmen R.N., and five midshipmen

R.N.R.--a jolly lively crowd of us, I can assure you."

He touched a bell.  A messman appeared.

"Jones," ordered the midshipman, "a good square meal for two, and jolly

well look sharp about it."

"You've got to be dead nuts on that chap if you want anything done in a

hurry," explained Sefton after the man had cleared off.  "It's the only

way to check slackness.  No doubt he gets his own back by giving us

plum-duff without troubling to extract the cockroaches; but we manage

to thrive on it.  By the by, I'll tell my servant to sling a couple of

hammocks for you.  There'll be no need to turn out before dinner."

Sefton hastened below to acquaint the marine who, for the sum of ten

shillings a month, acted as the budding Nelson's factotum to make the

necessary preparations for his new chums.  By the time he returned, a

substantial lunch had been set before Trefusis and Haye.

"I say, you fellows," remarked the midshipman; "I notice that

Eccles--that's the officer of the watch, you know--was greasing his jaw

tackle a good bit.  Did he mention where we are bound for?"

"Nothing definite," replied Vernon.  "He said that the ship was under

sealed orders."

"Then it's no use hazarding a guess," decided Sefton.  "It might be

anywhere from China to Peru.  In any case, it's a change from what

we've been doing--knocking about in the North Sea, waiting for an

appointment which the Germans flatly decline to keep.  Four months

solid, and I've never seen a gun discharged except at target practice."

During the progress of the meal young Sefton was a little inclined to

patronize his guests.  Perhaps he did it unconsciously.

"My governor's a post-captain," he observed in the course of

conversation.  "What's yours?"

"Only an Admiral," replied Ross.

"Is he, by Jove!" exclaimed Sefton.  "Then why the deuce are you a

'with but after'?"

"A what?" asked Trefusis, somewhat mystified.

"An R.N.R. man ranks with, but after, an R.N. fellow with equal rank,"

explained the midshipman.  "It's a fact: look it up in the King's

Regulations.  But, I say, do you play footer?  We're in a match.

Gun-room versus Ward-room, coming off this week.  If you play, I'll get

Cranbury--he's president of our mess--to put you in the team."

The meal over, Ross and Vernon were taken to the steerage flat, an

electrically lighted space out of which opened the cabin of the junior

officers.  At the after end of the flat, a marine sentry paced day and

night, his post extending from the stern torpedo-tube to the gun-room

door on the port side, and to the armoured door on the starboard side.

Amongst his varied and multitudinous duties, particularly strict orders

were given him not to allow anyone to put their hands on the

paintwork--one of the standing orders dating from the prehistoric days

before the war, when "spit and polish" were regarded as being

absolutely essential to the efficiency of H.M. ships.

At three bells in the second dog-watch, the _Oxford_ having arrived at

the rendezvous, the sealed orders were opened.  It was then found that,

in company with the _Guildford_ and the _Launceston_, the cruiser had

to proceed to Halifax, Nova Scotia, to escort a contingent of Canadian

troops to Liverpool.

This was but one of the manifold odd jobs performed by the British Navy

in connection with the war--necessary, but without any prospect of

excitement.  The trip was regarded as a picnic, after weeks of

monotonous patrol duty, for when 800 miles west of Ireland there was

little likelihood of falling in with any hostile submarine, while other

German craft had been swept off the board months previously.

On the third day out the football match came off.  Ross and Vernon were

included in the gun-room team, and never before had they participated

in a rugger match in such strange circumstances.  The _Oxford_ was

pitching slightly in the long Atlantic swell.  The "ground" was the

port side of the quarter-deck, nets being rigged up to prevent the ball

getting very much in touch with the sea.  The fun was fast and furious,

the referee being inclined to tolerance; and before half-time half the

players were off the field owing to minor injuries, ranging from the

smashing of the Assistant Paymaster's eyeglasses to the laying out of

the portly Engineer-Commander.

Suddenly the _Oxford_ turned 8 degrees to starboard.  The alteration of

course resulted in a break in the game.  Something out of the usual had

occurred for the cruiser, which was the leading vessel in line ahead,

to break out of station.

A bugle sharply sounded the "G"--officers' call.  For'ard the bosn's

mates' pipes were turning up the hands.  The Captain, Commander, and

officer of the watch were on the fore-bridge looking steadily at a dark

cloud of smoke showing beyond the horizon.

It was a ship on fire.  The alert officer of the watch had noticed the

smoke, which was much too dense to be caused by the vessel's furnaces.

On reporting the matter to the captain, the latter immediately ordered

the _Oxford_ to be steered in that direction.  As senior officer, he

gave orders for the other cruisers to stand on that course.

"She's quite a small packet, I should imagine," remarked one of the

Subs.  "At any rate she's not fitted with wireless."

In half an hour the cruiser was sufficiently near to see clearly the

distressed vessel.  She was a cargo-boat of about two thousand tons.

Amidships, flames were mounting fiercely from her hatches.  She had

stopped her engines, and was preparing to lower boats.  Aft, she flew

the Stars and Stripes, upside down as a signal of distress.

The ship was doomed.  Fanned by the light breeze, the flames were

rapidly spreading.  Her cargo undoubtedly consisted of highly

inflammable material, since it blazed freely, while the smoke smelt

strongly of burnt oil.

The _Oxford_ stopped at four cables' length to windward of the burning

ship.  She could do nothing beyond rescuing the crew on board.  There

was no necessity to lower her boats, since the cargo-boat obviously had

enough for all hands.

At length the boats of the unfortunate ship were lowered.  There was no

undue haste.  Men deliberately threw their bundles into the arms of

their waiting comrades before they swarmed down the falls.  The captain

was the last to leave, a bulge under his coat betraying the fact that

he had taken the ship's papers with him.

"Nothing of an explosive nature in her cargo," said Ross to his chum.

"Otherwise they would have sheered off a bit quicker.  My word, how she

does burn!  Isn't it a grand sight?"

"Yes," admitted Vernon.  "It's lucky there's help at hand.  Knocking

about in the boats in mid-Atlantic must be ten times as bad as in the

English Channel."

"I beg to differ," remarked one of the Subs who was standing by.

"There's not so much shipping, I'll admit, but the waves are longer and

more regular in mid-ocean.  It's marvellous what an open boat can do

when she's put to it, except in very broken water."

The boats were now approaching the _Oxford_.  A monkey-ladder had been

lowered to enable the men to surmount the lofty side of the cruiser,

while the sailors, always ready to lend a hand in cases of distress,

were swarming down to the net-shelves in readiness to receive the

personal belongings of the American seamen.

"Look!" whispered Vernon.  "Isn't that chap like our old pal

Ramblethorne?"

He pointed to a tall, bronzed man clad in canvas jumper and trousers,

and wearing a grey slouched hat.  He was sitting in the stern-sheets of

the second boat, with his shoulders hunched and his face half-averted.

"Like him?" echoed Ross.  "By Jove, it's he, right enough!"

Trefusis was right.  Von Hauptwald, alias Ramblethorne, had succeeded

in evading the hue and cry after his escape on Harley Bank, and had

continued to remain hidden in the house of a naturalized German in

Cheshire until the search for him had somewhat relaxed.

He then managed to ship as a fireman on board a vessel bound for

Montreal, knowing that his chances of getting out of Great Britain

would be greater if he made for a Dominion port rather than one in the

United States.

At Montreal he promptly deserted, made his way across the border, and

thence to New York.  Here he picked up with a German-American

shipowner, who readily agreed to help him back to Germany.

A cargo-boat, the _Tehuantepec Girl_, was loading with a cargo

consisting of cotton, ready-made clothing, and leather equipment.

Nominally her destination was Leith.  Her manifest and bill of lading

were made out to that effect, but secretly her skipper had instructions

to make for Stockholm.  If he were overhauled and taken into Lerwick by

a British patrol-boat, well and good.  The owners must be compensated

by the British Government, even if the _Tehuantepec Girl_ was miles out

of her course for Leith.  On the other hand, if the boat succeeded in

reaching the Baltic, she would be conveniently "captured", by previous

arrangement, by a German cruiser or destroyer and taken into Kiel.

Unfortunately the fact of keeping secret the real destination of the

_Tehuantepec Girl_ led to her undoing.  A German dock-hand, who was

really in the pay of the Teutonic Government, had placed an infernal

machine in the cargo, setting it to explode two days after leaving New

York.

In less than a quarter of an hour after the discovery of the outbreak,

the fire had taken such a firm hold that all attempts to subdue it were

hopeless.

And now von Hauptwald, in the disguise of a Yankee deck-hand, was being

rowed towards a craft which he would have given almost anything to

avoid--a British cruiser.

Still, he was not dismayed.  The chances of detection were absurdly

small.  None of the _Tehuantepec Girl's_ crew knew his true personality

except the captain, and he was to be handsomely rewarded as soon as the

spy was safe in German territory.  On the other hand, there might be

one amongst the 655 forming the complement of the _Oxford_ who might

recognize the one-time doctor who had lived at Devonport.

"Let's get out of his way," suggested Vernon.  "We'll inform the

Commander, and he will order him to be put under arrest."

"I'm not going to budge," declared Ross.  "If he sees us, what can he

do?"

"I'm not afraid of him," protested Haye.

"Very well, then; let's stop where we are.  He's got to know sooner or

later."

The first boat had already delivered her human cargo Upon the cruiser's

quarter-deck.  As each man's name was taken down by the master-at-arms

he was sent forward.  The first mate remained in conversation with the

Commander until the arrival of the _Tehuantepec Girl's_ skipper.

Von Hauptwald was one of the last men to come aboard.  As he swung

himself over the rail he gave a swift glance at the group of officers.

His eye caught that of Ross Trefusis.

For a moment the spy thought that he was mistaken, but a second glimpse

confirmed his suspicions.

"Steady on there!" shouted the Commander.  "What the deuce are you up

to?"

Von Hauptwald had broken into a run across the quarter-deck.  With a

bound he cleared the stanchion-rails, and plunged head foremost into

the sea.

He had realized that to remain on the cruiser meant arrest and ultimate

death as a dangerous spy.  Better by far to be drowned without further

delay than to experience all the horrors of lying under sentence of

death.

He had acted spontaneously, yet there was method in his madness.  By

running across to the other side of the ship there was little chance of

the boats being able to pick him up ere he sank for the last time.  Not

until he rose to the surface did he realize his difficulty.  He was a

strong swimmer, and the natural instinct to strike out overpowered his

determination to sink.

There was a rush of officers and men to the ship's side to see what was

taking place.  With two exceptions, they thought that the supposed

seaman had suddenly lost his reason.

Two seamen, one a brawny specimen, the other a red-haired

middle-weight, dived after the would-be suicide.  Others were on the

point of following when the Commander restrained them.

"Away sea-boat!" was the order.

The _Oxford_ was now forging slowly through the water.  During the

rescue of the _Tehuantepec Girl's_ people, she had drifted rather too

close to the burning ship to be safe, should an explosion occur.

Already von Hauptwald was fifty yards astern, with the two seamen

swimming towards him with powerful strokes.

His efforts to drown were a failure.  He simply couldn't keep his head

under.  His attempts to swallow quantities of salt water only increased

the instinctive motion of the limbs to keep himself afloat.  Bitterly

he regretted that he had not picked up some heavy metal object during

his career across the cruiser's quarterdeck.

The approach of his would-be rescuers made him realize the necessity of

self-destruction.  At the encouraging shout of "Cheer up, old mate,

you're safe!" spluttered by the leading seaman, he dived, pressing his

chest with both hands in the hope that he would be able to expel the

air from his lungs.

A horny hand gripped him by the arm.  He felt himself being drawn to

the surface.  As his head appeared, he swung round and dealt the seaman

a powerful blow with his fist.  The man, taken completely by surprise,

relaxed his grip.  Von Hauptwald's blow had almost broken his shoulder.

"Be careful, Ginger!" he shouted to his mate.  "He's fair balmy.  Mind

he don't plug you."

The second seaman swam in a circle just beyond reach of the spy's arm.

His attempt to get behind the German failed, for the simple reason that

von Hauptwald gave no opportunity for an attack in the rear.  The other

sailor, floating on his back and rubbing his injured arm, was content

to shout advice and await developments.

The red-haired man was not deficient in courage, but he did not at all

relish the idea of tackling single-handed a powerfully built

maniac--for such he took the spy to be.  He wisely awaited the approach

of the _Oxford's_ sea-boat, which, manned by four rowers who were

encouraged by Midshipman Setley, was being urged rapidly towards the

scene.

"Way enough!" shouted the middy.

The bowman boated his oar and leant over the bows.  As he did so von

Hauptwald avoided his grip, and, seizing the boat's keel, brought his

head in violent contact with the elm planking.

Then it was that Ginger saw his chance and took it.  Grabbing the

German by the legs, he hung on like grim death, shouting to his

comrades to "tackle the lubber".

Within an ace of capsizing the boat, von Hauptwald was hauled on board.

He fought desperately.  For a moment it seemed as if he would more than

hold his own against the four seamen, until one of them, seizing a

stretcher, dealt the spy a crack on the head that laid him senseless

across the thwarts.

"Couldn't help it, sir," exclaimed the man apologetically.

"You did perfectly right, Dickenson," said the midshipman.  "He's

properly mad.  Come on, you men, are you going to bathe for the rest of

the day?"

The victim of von Hauptwald's attack had to be assisted into the boat,

which, on making the ship, was quickly hoisted and secured.

Meanwhile the _Tehuantepec Girl_ was on the point of sinking.  From

stem to stern she was a roaring furnace.  Mingled with the roar of the

flames could be heard the hiss of water coming in contact with the

red-hot plates, while ever and anon came the crash of metal as the deck

beams gave way and fell into the hold.

Suddenly she parted amidships.  The flames died out, overpowered by the

inrush of water.  A thick column of smoke and steam arose as the bow

and stem [Transcriber's note: stern?] portions floated apart.  Then

with the roar of escaping air the remains of the Yankee cargo-boat

disappeared, to find a resting-place 7000 fathoms deep on the bed of

the Atlantic.

CHAPTER XXIII

Mined

"So that accounts for the fellow's behaviour," remarked the Captain of

the _Oxford_, after Ross and Vernon had communicated their discovery to

the Commander, who in turn reported the news to the skipper.  "The

doctor says he is out of danger, eh?  From a medical point of view, no

doubt.  Put him in the cells, Master-at-arms.  We'll take good care not

to land him at Halifax."

Upon arriving at the Nova Scotian port, whither the _Oxford's_ consorts

had preceded her, the officers and crew of the _Tehuantepec Girl_ were

landed.  Forty-eight hours elapsed before the transports were ready to

leave, and thus Ross and Vernon, with most of the officers of the

cruisers, had an opportunity of a "spell ashore".

On the homeward run nothing untoward occurred, except that, instead of

proceeding to Liverpool, the cruisers and their convoy were suddenly

ordered by wireless to make for the Clyde.

Off the Pladda Light the transports were met by a flotilla of

destroyers, while the cruisers were ordered to proceed via Cape Wrath

to rejoin the fleet at Rosyth.  Without slackening speed the three

cruisers flung about, and steered a course immediately opposed to the

one they had previously been following.  Experience had told them that

speed was one of the essentials to safety, even when in land-locked

waters such as the Firth of Clyde.

"You don't look like leaving us in a hurry," remarked Midshipman

Sefton, when he communicated the latest change of plans to Trefusis and

his chum.

"We don't mind in the slightest," Ross hastened to assure him.  "It's

jolly comfortable on board the _Oxford_."

"Wait until we're ordered straight away for patrol work," said Sefton.

"It's more than likely that we may be pushed off to the Norwegian coast

without having so much as a sniff at Rosyth.  We'll just about hit the

equinoctial gales, and in those latitudes they get ice and snow pretty

early in the autumn.  But, by the by, I heard the doctor tell the

Commander that your pal, von Hauptwald, is in a pretty state of funk."

"I shouldn't wonder," replied Ross.  "A court-martial will make it

pretty hot for him."

"It's hardly that," said Sefton.  "The fellow's absolutely crazy with

fear.  He's been imploring the master-at-arms and the sentry on the

cells to ask the skipper to shift him above the water-line.  It's only

since the ship arrived in home waters, so it seems as if he's in mortal

dread of being cooped up below and the _Oxford_ being mined or

torpedoed."

"And what did the Captain say?"

"Merely told the M.A.A. to carry on.  Since the cells are below the

water-line, and the King's Regulations say that prisoners are to be

placed in cells, that ends the matter."

Passing through the Little Minch, and continually steering an erratic

course in order to baffle any unterseebooten, should they be operating

off the West coast of Scotland, the _Oxford_ rounded Cape Wrath.

In spite of a rapidly falling glass the weather still remained fine,

although the heavy swell encountered off the coast of Sutherland and

Caithness betokened, in conjunction with the barometer, a gale at no

distant date.

"This will be you fellows' last night on board," remarked Farnworth,

one of the Acting Sub-lieutenants, as Ross and Vernon prepared to turn

into their hammocks after a strenuous sing-song in the gun-room mess.

"We'll be at Rosyth before noon to-morrow.  'Fraid it's been a bit tame

after the _Capella_.  Beyond that affair of the _Tehuantepec Girl_

there hasn't been much doing.  The small fry get all the excitement,

I'm sorry to say.  These armoured cruisers seem to be neither fish,

fowl, nor good red herring in these times."

It seemed to Ross that he had been asleep only a few minutes when he

was suddenly awakened by a terrific crash, followed by a concussion

that shook the cruiser from stem to stern.  His hammock rolled so

violently that he promptly fell out on the floor of the flat.  Before

he could rise, the occupant of the next hammock tried his level best to

thrust his toes into Trefusis' mouth.  The rest of the midshipmen, who

were watch below, were either thrown from their hammocks or had leapt

hurriedly from them.  The electric lights were out.  The shock had

either shattered the carbon threads or had broken the wires.

"Torpedoed!" exclaimed a junior midshipman.

"Dry up!" ordered Sefton sternly.  "On deck all of you; there's the

'Action' bugle--no, it's 'Collision Stations'."

Just then a light appeared.  The sentry in the steerage flat had lit

one of the bulkhead lamps, which are always in readiness for use in the

event of a break-down in the electric current.

The cruiser was listing perceptibly to starboard.

She was in danger of turning turtle and foundering, but even in the

face of death not one of the handful of young officers showed the

faintest sign of fear.  If in their inmost minds the lads were a little

timorous, they bravely kept their feelings to themselves.  They were

part and parcel of a British warship's complement.  They had a

reputation to maintain--the reputation of a Navy dating back for

centuries.  It was in safe keeping, for the _Oxford's_ midshipmen were

made of the right stuff.

A few made a hasty dive into their sea-chests to make sure of some

precious article.  Others scrambled into their thick coats, bantering

each other as they did so.

Overhead, the noise of hundreds of feet could be heard as the men

doubled aft to the quarter-deck.  Above the tumult rose the shrill

pipes of the bos'n's mates' whistles, and the hoarse shouts of "On

deck, every mother's son of you!" bawled by a leather-lunged petty

officer.

"We don't want to leave you, but we fear that we must go," parodied one

of the midshipmen, giving a farewell glimpse into the gun-room that had

been his home for the last fifteen months.  "Come on, you fellows,

who's going to enter for the long-distance swimming race?"

Up the ladder swept the throng of youthful humanity, followed by the

sentry, who had received orders to abandon his post.  On the half-deck,

the gun-room officers met the swarm of senior officers issuing from

their cabins, mostly clad in pyjamas and uniform caps.  The

Gunnery-lieutenant was afterwards heard to declare solemnly that he had

seen the Paymaster issuing from the ship's office with the ledger on

his head, while under his left arm he held his cap.

"Let's stick together, old man!" exclaimed Ross as the chums gained the

quarter-deck.

The first hurried rush aft had now given place to strict discipline.

The men were falling in as calmly as if mustered for divisions.  Some

were blowing up their pneumatic swimming-collars, others helping to

adjust a comrade's life-belt.  A few were joking and talking, none of

the officers gainsaying them.  By virtue of an unwritten law the men

were allowed to smoke, and the odour of strong tobacco wafted across

the broad quarterdeck.

"Got a fag, Lofty?" Vernon overheard a burly stoker ask his neighbour.

"No; I don't smoke, mate," replied the man.

"You will soon," replied the stoker, and a roar of merriment rose from

the lips of the men within hearing.  They thought the retort was a

smart bit of humour, and, when at length the implied nature of the

man's words dawned upon him, even Vernon had to smile.

From the after bridge, search-lights were playing upon the waves.  The

light quick-firers were manned ready to deal with any visible foe.  On

the navigation bridge the Captain, with the officer of the watch, was

pacing calmly up and down the slightly inclined structure.

Presently he was joined by two dark forms--the Commander and the

carpenter.  A bugle sounded the "Still".  A hush fell upon the swarm of

humanity, the silence being broken only by the hiss of escaping steam,

and the rush of water under the action of the powerful Downton pumps.

"My lads!" shouted the skipper.  "The old ship is holding out.  We'll

get her into dock yet.  Pipe down!"

The _Oxford_ had not been struck by a torpedo.  Examination showed that

she had bumped against a mine, with the result that the fore

compartments were flooded.  Fortunately the transverse bulkhead and

watertight doors withstood the strain of the terrific inrush of water.

Although well down by the bows the cruiser was in no immediate danger.

The watch below disappeared from sight; those of the officers who were

not on duty retired to their cabins, yet few of them slept again that

night.

As Ross and his chum were about to leave the quarterdeck, the Commander

strode by.

"Pass the word for the master-at-arms," he ordered.  "Master-at-arms

went below, sir, to release the prisoners," reported a petty officer.

"By Jove!" whispered Ross.  "I'd clean forgotten Ramblethorne.  I

wonder how he liked the business?"

"Let's wait," suggested Vernon.

They took up their position on the leeward side of the after 7.5-inch

gun-shield.  Here they were sheltered from the wind and out of sight of

the alert Commander, although they could hear what was being said.

"Master-at-arms is in the sick-bay, sir," reported the messenger as he

came up at the double.  "He's nearly done for, trying to get to the

prisoners.  The ship's corporal managed to release the two ordinary

seamen, but the spy's done in, sir--I mean he's drownded."

Almost immediately following the explosion, the master-at-arms had

hurried to the cells.  The flat was in darkness.  The sentry on No. 6

post, in charge of the prisoners, was lying stunned on the floor of the

passage.  Water was surging aft.  Already it was up to the knees of the

master-at-arms as he plunged through the gloom towards his goal.

The three prisoners were shouting in mad panic.  They realized their

awful peril.  Caged like rats in a trap, they felt certain that the

cruiser was foundering, and that they would be carried down in a living

tomb until the pressure of water burst open the comparatively strong

steel walls of the cell.

At length the chief of the ship's police forced the door of the

nearmost cell.  By sheer good luck he inserted the key into the lock

without having to fumble for the opening.  The prisoner, a young seaman

who had broken out of the ship at Halifax, was too terrified to know

his way to safety.  He clutched at the master-at-arms, following him to

the next cell.

The water was now waist-deep.  In trying to find the keyhole the

master-at-arms dropped the keys.  It took some minutes to find them--a

loss of valuable time.

The noise of the inrushing water was deafening.  For all the petty

officer knew, the ship might be about to make her last plunge.  Yet his

duty lay before him.  At the risk of his life the prisoners must be set

free.

A light appeared upon the scene.  A ship's corporal, bearing a lantern,

descended to the flat with the laudable intention, of assisting his

superior.

The door of the second cell flew open, but a rush of water on the

flood, under the movement of the stricken vessel surged and swept the

master-at-arms off his feet.  His forehead came in violent contact with

the steel frame of the door, and, rendered senseless, he dropped

inertly upon the flooded floor of the passage.

"Pull yourselves together, men!" exclaimed the corporal to the two

prisoners.  "You're all right.  Bear a hand here."

Together they carried the unconscious master-at-arms out of the flat.

The corporal returned to liberate the occupier of the third cell--von

Hauptwald.  But once again the keys were missing, having slipped from

the insensible man's hand.

The water in the confined space was now shoulder-deep.  The corporal

could hear the stout bulkhead groaning under the pressure.  Fixing the

lantern on a bracket he dived, groping with both hands for the keys.

At length he found them, and threw open the door of the cell.

"Out you come!" he shouted.

There was no reply.  Von Hauptwald had ceased to shout for some

minutes.  The silence was ominous.

A movement of the badly stricken ship sent the water well over the

corporal's head.  He was swept off his feet.  It was time for him to

get back to safety.  He had done all he could.  The spy was dead.

CHAPTER XXIV

"Shrap"

It was late in the afternoon when the _Oxford_ arrived, under her own

steam, at Rosyth.  Although the dry docks were in use, accommodation

was quickly found for the damaged cruiser by the simple expedient of

floating out a battleship that was being cleaned and recoated with

anti-fouling composition.  Since speed is an absolute necessity for

efficiency in war-time, it was the practice to dock all the ships of

the battle-cruiser and armoured cruiser class in rotation, the margin

of safety being sufficient to allow this to be done without impairing

the strength of the squadrons.

By the aid of powerful arc-lamps the dockyard hands took the crippled

_Oxford_ into dock, and, the caisson having been replaced, the water

was quickly pumped out.  The damage done was found, on examination, to

be limited to a space extending 30 feet from the bows.  The actual

aperture caused by the explosion measured 6 feet by 30 inches, but the

adjacent plates had been buckled and the bolts "started" under the

violent concussion.  Well it was that the armoured bulkhead had

withstood the strain, otherwise nothing could have saved the ship.

There was no delay in setting to work.  Almost before the last of the

water had been pumped out of the dock, stagings were built up round the

bows, and scores of shipwrights set to work to rebuild the damaged

portion of the hull.  Under normal conditions the work would have taken

a couple of months, but, by working day and night, the efficient

dockyard staff hoped to effect repairs within nine days.

Since the commencement of the greatest war the world has ever yet seen,

it was the custom to allow the officers and crews of torpedoed or mined

ships--if they were fortunate enough to be numbered amongst the

survivors--seven days' leave.  A rest on shore was necessary for the

crews to recover from the mental shock, for it was found that although

the men might escape from physical injury and appear bright and

cheerful immediately after the occurrence, the reaction was most marked

at about forty-eight hours afterwards.

Ross and Vernon, although not borne in the books of the _Oxford_,

received permission to go on leave.  Since Haye's father was somewhere

in the North Sea, and he had no near relatives, he gladly accepted

Ross's offer to sample again the hospitality of Killigwent Hall.

It was late when their train arrived at King's Cross; so much so that

the lads realized it would be useless to attempt to catch the Cornwall

express that would land them at St. Bedal just before midnight.

"I vote we have an evening in town," suggested Vernon.  "Let's go to a

theatre.  It seems ages since I was inside a music hall, or even a

picture palace."

"All right," agreed Ross.  "We'll have a jolly good square meal before

we go.  I know of a decent little hotel just off the Strand."

The two midshipmen took the Underground as far as Charing Cross.  As

they emerged from the station they renewed their acquaintance with the

metropolis in war-time.  The streets were plunged in almost Stygian

darkness.  Omnibuses and taxicabs crawled painfully through the gloom;

pedestrians were cannoning into each other at every step.  The only

relief to the blackness were the two search-lights from the Admiralty

Arch that swung like gigantic pendulums across the dark and misty sky.

"Let's get out of it," exclaimed Ross, as he just managed to save

himself from being run down by a motor-car.  "It's a jolly sight more

dangerous than keeping the middle watch on the old _Capella_."

Five minutes later they were sitting down to an ample dinner, provided

at a cost that proved pretty conclusively the futility of the German

submarine blockade.  In the well-lighted room there was little to

suggest that business was not proceeding "as usual", except perhaps the

predominance of khaki-clad officers.

A string band was discoursing the latest operatic music, the diners

were laughing and chattering.  Within, the gaiety and light-heartedness

contrasted violently with the dismal gloom inflicted upon the

metropolis as a result of precautions adopted by the triple authorities

responsible for its defence against air-craft.

Presently the band finished one item on the programme.  The comparative

silence that followed was almost immediately interrupted by a series of

sharp reports, punctuated by a deeper crash.

"Zepps!" exclaimed a dozen voices.

Instantly there was a rush--not for the deep cellars underneath the

building, but for the open street.  The white faces of a few of the

guests showed that they had, perhaps, a little anxiety, but for the

most part an excitable curiosity took possession of the crowd.

"Come on!" exclaimed Ross to his chum.  "Let's see the fun.  We haven't

had a chance of seeing a real Zepp before."

The lad's words voiced the thoughts of nine-tenths of the dwellers of

the metropolis who were within sight of the would-be Terror of the Air.

Useless, indeed, were the official warnings as to the right thing to be

done when the Zeppelins came.  One man, however, drew a respirator from

a hand-bag and proceeded to don it, until a roar of laughter from the

stream of people issuing from the hotel caused him somewhat

shamefacedly to replace the useless article.

Into the street the lads elbowed their way.  The progress through the

long corridor of the hotel reminded them of a football scrum.  It was

not the blind rush of panic; merely a desire to lose nothing of the

"fun".

A couple of thousand feet overhead, a silvery-grey, bluff-pointed

cylinder was moving with apparent slowness.  Half a dozen search-lights

concentrated their beams upon it.  All around were rings of smoke,

marking the bursting shells from the anti-aircraft guns; yet,

apparently untouched by the hail of bullets, the giant gas-bag passed

on, hurling out death and destruction upon the greatest city on

earth--a city that, until the present war, had only once heard the

thunder of hostile guns.

Breathlessly the lads watched the progress of the huge Zeppelin,

momentarily expecting it to collapse and come tumbling, a tangled mass

of flaming wreckage, to the ground.  Viewed from below, it seemed

impossible for the airship to escape the bursting shells.  The air was

rent by the crash of falling bombs and the sharp reports of the

"anti's", while in the distance could be heard the clatter of broken

glass.  The explosive bombs wrought havoc upon the homes of harmless

Londoners.  Flames, too, were springing up, throwing a lurid glare upon

the sky.

Yet, unless actually within radius of the German explosives, the

populace was remarkably calm.  Men, women, and children watched the

Zeppelin, much in the same way as if they were witnessing a Brock's

display at the Crystal Palace.  Once again German frightfulness had

failed--and failed badly--to attain its desired end.

"Hurrah!  She's got it properly in the neck," shouted an excited

special constable, as the Zeppelin gave a sudden lurch and began to

drop at an acute angle.

But the next instant the silvery envelope was hidden in a cloud of

dense black smoke.  Seconds passed, but no shattered wreckage streamed

earthwards.  When the vapour dispersed, the Zeppelin was nowhere to be

seen.  Under cover of the smoke-cloud she had dropped a large quantity

of ballast, and had soared skyward to a great altitude.

Gradually, like the rumble of a passing thunderstorm, the reports of

the distant anti-aircraft guns died away.  The Zepps had taken

themselves off, leaving half a dozen fires and hundreds of more or less

damaged buildings to impress upon the strafed English that insularity

is no longer a protection from the cowardly night-raiders of the air.

"The show's over," declared Ross.  "I vote we turn in.  By Jove,

there'll be a rush to the recruiting offices to-morrow!"

Requesting to be called at eight, the two midshipmen entered the lift

and were whisked up to their room.

"What's that noise?" asked Vernon, pausing in the midst of unpacking

his portmanteau.

"Something in the corridor," replied Ross.

"I don't think so.  It's something or someone under my bed.  Lock the

door, old man; no, don't ring, if it's a burglar we'll tackle him."

Haye knelt by the bedside, Ross standing behind him ready to grapple

with the intruder.  Cautiously Vernon lifted the valance.  As he did so

he quickly withdrew his hand, which had come in contact with something

warm and moist.

"Dash it all!" he exclaimed.  "It's a dog.  Come out, sir!"

He was right.  The animal gave a low whine, but made no attempt to

budge.

"Mind the brute doesn't fix you," cautioned Ross.

"No fear," replied his chum confidently.  "All dogs take to me.  Come

along, old boy."

Again he groped with his hand.  His fingers touched the long, silky

hair on the animal's neck.  Slowly he drew the creature from its place

of concealment.  It was a sheep-dog pup, of about four months.

"Pretty-looking dog," exclaimed Vernon.  "I wonder how it came here?

Suppose it was frightened at the racket.  It looks terrified out of its

wits.  Good dog!"

The pup fixed its large brown eyes upon Vernon's face, and attempted to

wag its stumpy tail.  As it did so the lads discovered that its hind

quarters were tinged with blood.

"Oh, you poor little beggar!" said Vernon sympathetically.  "However

did you get that?  I say, Ross, fill that basin with water."

"Better send for the boots," suggested Trefusis.  "He'll take it to a

vet.'s, or perhaps he'll know whose dog it is."

"Not much chance of finding a vet. at this time of night," objected

Vernon.  "Even the chemist will be busy with minor casualties.  No, I

won't worry the management.  I've doctored dogs before now."

He began bathing the matted hair.  The flow of blood had ceased, but

upon examining the wound he found that it was a small circular incision.

He felt the spot.  The pup, hitherto patient, uttered a low moan.

"There's something hard there," reported Vernon.  "It's only a little

way under the skin.  We'll have it out.  Hold his head, old man.  Don't

let him yelp; keep your hand over his muzzle.  I'm afraid I must hurt

the poor little beggar a bit."

Using the little blade of a knife, Haye adroitly probed the wound.

Soft-hearted as he was, the action seemed to hurt him more than the

patient; but his efforts were rewarded by the extraction of a small

steel ball.

"A shrapnel bullet!" exclaimed Ross.  "That accounts for the poor

little brute being in such a terrible funk.  Give him a drink of water.

He'll be better now.  We can bandage the wound with our handkerchiefs."

Five minutes later the dumb patient, his hind quarters swathed in

elaborate bandages, was lying contentedly upon the hearth-rug, his

stumpy tail, protruding between the folds of linen, wagging, as he

tried to express his gratitude in doggy fashion.

"Now what's to be done?" enquired Ross.

"Let him stop until morning," replied Vernon decisively.  "There might

be a row if the hotel people know that there's a dog in the bedroom.

The owner can't be much of a chap if he doesn't make enquiries."

"Perhaps he hasn't missed the dog," suggested Ross; "or it's just

likely he isn't stopping at the hotel.  Well, here goes.  I'm turning

in."

Ten minutes later both midshipmen were fast asleep.  They had no middle

watch to keep, and as for Zeppelins, they were merely a passing show.

At daylight Vernon was awakened by something licking his face.  The

pup, having shown his contempt for bandages by biting them to ribbons,

was standing on his hind legs and licking his benefactor's nose, while

his tail was wagging with the rapidity of the flag of an expert

signaller.  The hardy little animal had made light of his wound.

Having dressed, the midshipman made enquiries of the waiter, but

without satisfactory results.  No one in the hotel had a dog.

"I'll report him to the police," decided Vernon.  "Ten to one the owner

won't claim him.  At any rate I'll stick to him.  He's awfully fond of

me already."

After breakfast Vernon sent the obliging waiter to purchase a collar,

for the sheep-dog was wearing none.  Sticking closely to Vernon's

heels, the pup followed his new master to the police station, where an

inspector took down a number of particulars.

"Very good, sir; that's all I want.  I don't fancy you'll hear any more

about it."

"What are you going to call him?" asked Ross, as the chums were seated

in a first-class carriage, with the dog at Vernon's feet, on their way

to Cornwall.

"Zepp," replied Vernon promptly.

"Not patriotic," objected Ross with a laugh.

"I think so," rejoined his chum.

"Why?"

"Because, like last night's Zeppelin, he turned tail when he had a

shrapnel bullet in his stern."

"That's all very well," said Ross, "but you can't explain all that to

everyone.  Why not call him Shrapnel?"

"All right.  'Shrap' for short," agreed Vernon.  "Good boy, Shrap!  Wag

your tail, you little rascal."

And Shrap obeyed promptly.  Evidently the choice of a name reminiscent

of bodily injury troubled him not one jot.

CHAPTER XXV

Off the Belgian Coast

"A chance of seeing something exciting at last!" exclaimed Ross.  "Of

course we've not had altogether a dull time, but this ought to be

absolutely 'it'."

Two months had elapsed since the lads saw a hostile air-ship over

London.  Now they were about to see what a fleet of heavily armed

British ships could do--not against a practically defenceless town, but

against the strongly fortified German batteries on the Belgian coast.

Trefusis and Haye were on board the _Capella_, lying in the outer

harbour at Dover.  It was not the _Capella_ that had come off

second-best in an encounter with a floating mine, but another, similar

in almost every respect to the lost patrol-boat.  She was manned, too,

by the same officers and crew--with one exception.  Sub-lieutenant John

Barry had obtained his promotion, and had been appointed to H.M.S.

_Hunbilker_ in command.

What the _Hunbilker_ was, no one on board the _Capella_ knew.  The

Admiralty publications at their disposal were blank as far as that ship

was concerned.  Speculation ran high: some of the officers expressing

their opinion that Barry's command was a subsidized cargo-boat; others

that she was one of the mosquito flotilla that had been evolved out of

modern naval requirements.  All were wrong, as they had yet to learn

something more of the type of vessel flying the White Ensign that was

helping to sweep the seas of the Black Cross of Germany.

"Well, old boy, how do you think you will like the racket?" asked

Vernon, stooping to pat the massive head of a healthy-looking

sheep-dog.  Shrap had been allowed, by the Captain's permission, to

join the _Capella_ as a mascot--the pet of both officers and crew, and

of Vernon Haye in particular.

Shrap winked knowingly, then trotted off to a secluded part of the

chart-room, where, under a locker, he had hidden the remains of what,

half an hour previously, had been Sub-lieutenant Fox's shaving-brush.

The _Capella_ was by no means the only craft rolling sluggishly in the

vast artificial harbour.  There were seven motor patrol-vessels,

specially detailed for the forthcoming operations as tenders to the

sea-planes.

A strong array of monitors, craft of ugly but utilitarian design,

low-lying, and mounting two 14-inch guns, had assembled for the purpose

of making it hot for the Hun on the morrow.  Only light-draughted craft

were to be employed in the attack, since they could approach within

very effective range of their guns, and at the same time stand little

chance of being torpedoed by a handful of unterseebooten that had been

transported in sections to Zeebrugge and there fitted for service.

According to the Admiral's plan, the monitors were to approach Ostend

just after daybreak.  In the offing a number of empty transports were

to assemble, protected by a powerful flotilla of destroyers.  The

appearance of these transports would be taken by the Germans as an

indication of an attempted landing of a British force, and troops would

be hurriedly massed to repel the threatened invasion.

The monitors were thereupon to fire a certain number of rounds, then,

followed in a parallel course by the transports, make for Zeebrugge.

Alternate visits to both the Belgian ports in German hands were to be

made throughout the day, thereby wearing out the German troops in

fruitless marching and counter-marching, and at the same time diverting

a strong body of men from a section of the trenches upon which the

British troops were to deliver a sudden and unexpected assault.

At four in the morning the monitors began to leave Dover Harbour.

Thanks to the stringent military precautions taken in the

town--precautions that could with decided advantage be imitated

elsewhere--the presence of spies was almost, if not quite, a matter of

impossibility.  Unheralded by the Kaiser's agents, the small yet

powerful vessels cleared the entrance to the breakwater and headed for

the Belgian coast.

An hour later a masthead lamp blinked from the _Vega_--the senior

officer's ship of the patrol flotilla.  Then, in line ahead, the swift

motor craft slipped quietly out of the harbour to overtake their slower

consorts.

The _Capella_, like the rest of her sister ships, was cleared for

action.  Stanchion-rails were unshipped; everything likely to splinter

was sent below.  In the wake of the armoured protection, sandbags were

placed to reinforce the steel plating.  Although the patrol-vessels

were not to take part in the bombardment, they had to be prepared in

case a forlorn hope in the shape of a few German torpedo-boats might

attempt a sudden onslaught.

As attendants upon the sea-planes, too, it was possible that the

patrol-boats would have to approach within range of the garrison

artillery, especially in the event of one of the aerial craft being

disabled and falling into the sea, on its return from "spotting" the

hits of the monitors' guns.

Dawn had not yet broken when the monitors, followed at two miles'

distance by the motor patrol, came in sight of the search-lights on the

low-lying Belgian coast.  Beyond the limit of direct rays, yet within

range of their monster guns, the monitors were safe from detection.

All that was wanting was the presence of the sea-planes, for whose work

daylight was essential.

Slowly a pale light spread on the north-eastern horizon.  The short

wintry day was breaking.  The sea was calm.  The air was piercingly

cold.  A thin coating of frost covered the _Capella's_ deck.  Ross and

his chum were heartily glad of their thick pilot-coats, mufflers, and

woollen "mitts", as they sheltered behind the breast-work erected on

the bridge.

Captain Syllenger slowly paced the bridge, frequently glancing at the

clock in the chart-room, since it was almost a matter of impossibility

to consult his watch, owing to his generous accumulation of clothing.

It was now nearly eight o'clock, but as yet there were no signs of the

expected sea-planes.

Just then the dull morning light was pierced by a brilliant flash from

one of the monitors.  The watchers on the _Capella's_ bridge could see

the low-lying hull give a decided jerk in a sternward direction under

the reaction of the enormous projectile.

Long before the shell reached its objective, other 14-inch guns added

their quota, and the air was rent with the flashes of the ordnance and

the ear-splitting detonations following the discharge.

"By Jove!" exclaimed Sub-lieutenant Fox, who with his brother officers

had had telescopes levelled upon the faintly outlined sand dunes.

"There are the sea-planes!"

He was right.  Flying at a great height the air-squadron had passed

over the warships, and had taken up their observation stations without

being seen or heard by anyone on board the patrol-vessels immediately

over the German batteries, they were cutting "figure eights" and

describing seemingly erratic circles, while the observers, coolly

wirelessing the results of the monitors' shells, hardly heeded the

furious fire directed upon them by the hostile anti-aircraft guns.

On a point extending for nearly three miles, the shore was torn by the

terrific explosive shells.  Clouds of sand, and yellow smoke mingled

marked the scene of destruction, as battery after battery was spotted

and promptly put out of action.  Across the dunes could be seen swarms

of ant-like figures--German troops flying for shelter from the

devastating fire of the British guns.

But the action was by no means a one-sided one.  Guns, large and small,

replied; the heavier ordnance vigorously at first, and then gradually

slackening down as the lyddite shells sought out the fixed

emplacements.  The lighter guns, mounted on armoured motor-cars, gave

more trouble, since, after every shot, each piece was moved a hundred

yards or more.

For several minutes the lads watched the unusual spectacle through the

binoculars.  Then something resembling a concentrated tornado screeched

above their heads.  Instinctively they ducked, the glasses falling from

their hands.  Ten seconds later Ross ventured to look up.  Vernon was

still holding his hands over his face.  Then slowly he, too, opened his

eyes.

The lads smiled sadly at each other, picked up their binoculars, and

somewhat shamefacedly resumed their former positions.

It was their baptism of heavy gun-fire.  A 42-centimetre shell had

ricochetted and leapt full twenty feet above their heads.

Captain Syllenger was standing a few paces from them.  Luckily, thought

Ross, the skipper's back was turned, and he had not noticed the action

of his young subordinates.  But Trefusis was wrong.  The Captain had

seen them.  Out of consideration, for he remembered his own sensations

when first under fire, he affected not to notice the temporary panic

that had overtaken the midshipmen.

The _Capella_ was now running at half speed, in a direction parallel to

the shore.  All around, the sea was torn by the falling projectiles,

most of which were sufficiently large to send her to the bottom like a

stone.  Yet, beyond the wounding of her wireless operator, the loss of

her signalling-mast, and the shattering of one of her boats, she came

off lightly.  Although not the object of the hostile guns, she narrowly

escaped several ricochets, until, at a signal from the senior officer,

the patrol-vessels withdrew to a safer distance.

One of the monitors, too, was slowly steaming seawards, well down by

the bows and smoke issuing from her fo'c'sle, while her single funnel

was riddled like a sieve.

"Sea-plane returning, sir!" announced Sub-lieutenant Fox.

Flying at an altitude of about a thousand feet, one of the aerial

scouts was making towards the line of patrol-vessels.  She was flying

steadily; her motor was purring rhythmically; a trail of thin bluish

smoke from her exhaust belied the suggestion of an overheated engine.

Yet something must have taken place for her to have quitted her

observation station.

Promptly Captain Syllenger gave orders for the _Capella's_ motors to

stop, then "Easy astern" until way was off the ship.

Making a graceful volplane, the sea-plane alighted with a faint splash

upon the surface of the water, and "taxied" to leeward of the

motionless vessel.

The sea-plane was a "two-seater".  The rearmost or observer's seat was

unoccupied.  In the foremost was a young Flight-Sub-lieutenant heavily

clad, and his clean-shaven face almost hidden by an airman's helmet.

For the first time, the officers on the bridge of the _Capella_ noticed

that the light steel plating was holed in many places, while the planes

bore testimony to the accuracy of the enemy's shrapnel.

"A casualty!" sang out the Flying officer.  "My pilot's been hit.  Can

you take him on board?"

Two of the _Capella's_ crew swarmed over the side and gained the

nearmost float, whence they clambered upon the body of the sea-plane.

At the same time, one of the davits from which the _Capella's_

shattered boat had hung was slung outboard.  By dint of careful

manoeuvring, the sea-plane was brought alongside with her main planes

practically parallel to the side of the ship.

The injured man was lying on the floor of the fuselage.  A canvas band

was strapped round his waist, and, supported by the two seamen, he was

gently hoisted on board the ship by means of the davit tackle.

The Flight-Sub swung himself over the side of the _Capella_ and

ascended the bridge.

"Got it hot at fifteen hundred feet," he explained.  "My pilot was

winged.  Hit twice, I believe.  Luckily the old bird kept fairly steady

until I could clamber into the pilot's seat and take control.  Rough

luck, too.  We were just doing a useful bit of spotting.  I suppose,

sir, there's no one on board who can handle a 'plane?"

"I'm afraid not," replied Captain Syllenger.

"Rough luck!" exclaimed the Sub despondently.  Then, brightening up, he

asked:

"Can you lend me a 'wireless' man?  I could take on the pilot's job."

"Our man's knocked out," said the skipper.

"That's done it!" exclaimed the Sub.  "There's a particularly tough

battery that I wanted to see knocked out.  No. 5 was almost on it when

we got it hot."

Ross was thinking rapidly and deeply.  He knew the Morse code well.  He

had dabbled in wireless telegraphy at school.  Perhaps----

He felt that it was almost too impertinent to offer his services, yet

the matter was urgent.  It was dangerous, too, most dangerous; but the

midshipman had learnt to place duty before personal consideration.

"Well?" asked Captain Syllenger as Trefusis stepped up and saluted

smartly.

"I'll go if I can be of any assistance, sir," said Ross.  "I can Morse

and use a buzzer, and I have a knowledge of wireless."

"Carry on, then," replied Captain Syllenger.

"Good man!" exclaimed the Flight-Sub-lieutenant.  "Can you stick

heights?"

"I've done a lot of cliff climbing--I am a Cornishman, you know," said

Trefusis.  "I haven't had a chance of flying before."

"You have now!" added the Flight-Sub.

CHAPTER XXVI

Disabled in Mid-air

Ross climbed agilely into the observer's seat, and, at his flying

companion's suggestion, buckled a broad leather strap round his waist.

At his right hand was the wireless transmitter, together with a pair of

prismatic glasses and map.  The latter was held in a transparent

celluloid case, while the glasses were secured by a cord sufficiently

long to enable the observer to use them in any direction.  Everything

was attached to the sea-plane so that in the event of the machine

having to "loop the loop" nothing would be lost.

The Sub, who for the present was to act as pilot, took his place in the

forward part of the body.  Giving a few preliminary touches to the

mechanism, he announced that everything was in order.

The self-starter was released and the motor fired, causing the twin

propellers to buzz smoothly and powerfully.

Ross waved his hand to his chum as the sea-plane glided away from the

_Capella_, and from that moment his whole attention was centred upon

the work on which he was engaged.

For nearly a hundred yards the sea-plane "taxied", rising lightly over

the waves; then almost imperceptibly it glided upwards with an even

motion.  Ross could hardly believe he was flying until he saw the sea

apparently receding from him.

"All right?" asked the Sub through the telephone that formed the only

audible means of communication between pilot and observer.  "Not

feeling giddy?"

"Not a bit," replied Ross.  Without experiencing the faintest sensation

of vertigo, he found himself able to lean over the side of the chassis

and look down at the scene two thousand feet beneath him.

The sea-plane was rising in a direction diverging obliquely with the

coast.  She was, in fact, almost over the line of empty transports that

looked little bigger than a fleet of toy boats.  Farther away could be

discerned the _Capella_ and her consorts, moving with apparent slowness

upon a perfectly calm sea, for at that altitude the waves were merged

into a flat surface.  Small splashes of white--the spray thrown up by

falling shells--could be seen all around the patrol-vessels, which, in

obedience to a signal, had now taken up a position rather nearer to the

monitors.

Presently the Flight-Sub, having gained the desired altitude, moved the

steering-plane ever so slightly.  Quickly the machine answered her

helm, swinging round until she pointed towards the land.

Three minutes later Ross found himself immediately above the British

monitors.  The sea-plane was now pitching slightly in the disturbed

air, for the concussion of the heavy weapons was distinctly felt even

at seven hundred yards above the bombarding ships.  Although the roar

of the concerted cannonade was deafening, Ross heard not a sound of it.

To all intents, as far as he was concerned, the guns might have been

fired with silencers attached to their muzzles.  The whirr of the

sea-plane's motor and the rush of air past his ears out-voiced every

other sound.

Five miles beyond the line of monitors, could be discerned the Belgian

coast, composed for the most part of undulating sand-dunes dotted with

clusters of buildings.

As the sea-plane approached the land Ross could, with the aid of his

binoculars, distinguish other objects--wavy lines, dotted with ant-like

figures bunched together round something that looked like stumps of a

lead pencil.  The lines were the German trenches, the "ants"

grey-coated artillerymen, and the "stumps" the heavy howitzers.

"That's our pigeon!" spoke the Flight-Sub through the telephone.  "The

battery a hundred yards to the north of that ruined church tower.  Our

fellows haven't knocked it out yet.  Wireless them; fifty yards over."

Ross sent the desired information.  The sea-plane, having flown over

its objective, turned, describing an elongated figure eight.  As she

swung round, Ross noticed a mushroom-like cloud of white smoke a short

distance beneath, and to the left of the fuselage.  Then another a

hundred feet immediately in front.  At each "mushroom" the sea-plane

curtsied.  Something zipped close to the lad's ear.  A wire snapped,

the severed portions circling themselves into erratic spirals.  A

fragment of fabric from one of the main planes flew past him, like a

scrap of tissue-paper in the grip of a boisterous wind.

Then Ross tumbled to it.  Those silent mushrooms of smoke were shrapnel

shells bursting unpleasantly close.  For a moment, the young observer

felt himself seized by an almost irresistible impulse to take refuge

under the coaming surrounding his seat.  He uttered an involuntary

exclamation of unwelcome surprise.

"What's up?" asked a voice in his ear.  It was the Flight-Sub, to whom

the telephone had transmitted Ross's exclamation.

"Nothing," replied the lad.

"Thought so," was the laconic reply.  "Don't worry."

Reasoning with himself, Ross came to the decision that the advice was

thoroughly sound.  Worrying would not help him in the least; neither

would cowering inside the frail body of the sea-plane.  Twice within a

very short space of time he had experienced a sensation of "funk".

Twice he was surprised to find how quickly he recovered; for, at the

next shot from the monitor for which he was "spotting", he found that

the sensation of "cold feet" had given place to one of exhilaration

when he was able to record a "direct hit".

By this time the initial operations were terminating.  The German fire

had almost ceased to be troublesome.  Most of the big howitzers and

long-range guns had been knocked out.  A few were still firing, but

very erratically.

At a signal from the senior officer, the monitors drew out of range,

and steaming at the maximum speed--a bare 11 knots--kept a course

parallel with the shore, accompanied by the patrol-vessels and

transports.

Well above effective shrapnel range, the squadron of sea-planes headed

for Zeebrugge.  A number of aviatiks, which were flying over the German

new sea base, hurriedly turned tail.  Previous experience had taught

them that naval air-craft could hit hard, in addition to carrying out

observation work.

There were, however, plenty of evidences that the Germans were rushing

up thousands of troops in order to deal with the supposed landing in

force.  Train after train made towards the town, crammed with soldiers.

The sea-planes let the trains pass unhindered.  It was not their

purpose to stop Germans from pouring into Zeebrugge.  Once the troops

were there, then would be the time to cut their lines of communication.

Again the monitors opened fire.  Their reception was hotter than it had

been in the neighbourhood of Ostend, for, in spite of frequent and

destructive molestation, the Germans had succeeded in throwing up

numerous heavily armed and cleverly concealed batteries.

At almost extreme range the British ships maintained a rapid high-angle

fire.  In a few minutes fires had broken out in several places.

Fifteen-hundred-pound shells dropped in the canal basin, blowing to

atoms several submarines that were in the process of fitting out.  The

harbour works were swept by the huge projectiles.  The long curved

breakwater suffered heavily.  Huge gaps appeared in the solid masonry.

Everything lying afloat in the enclosed water was either set on fire or

sunk.  In an hour the havoc wrought at Zeebrugge had wiped out the work

of months.

Ross had little time to notice the work of destruction.  His particular

business was to observe the fire directed upon a large redoubt to the

north-east of the town.  The first shell from the monitor fell short,

blowing an enormous crater in the grass-grown dunes.  The second fell

beyond, completely demolishing a house.  The third dropped fairly in

the centre of the redoubt, causing a terrific explosion that was not

due solely to the lyddite bursting-charge.  The magazine had exploded.

Skywards rushed an enormous cloud of black and yellow smoke.  Caught by

the blast of the violently displaced air the sea-plane rocked, then

began dropping like a stone.

For the moment Ross imagined that the end had come.  He was no longer

afraid.  A sensation of intense curiosity as to what the machine and

its occupants would look like seemed to obsess his mind.

Then, with a jerk that reminded the midshipman of the sudden starting

of a lift, the sea-plane "flattened out" and began to climb out of the

enveloping cloud of smoke.

The Flight-Sub turned his head and grinned broadly.  His manner could

not do otherwise than inspire confidence.  Although not a pilot, he was

master of the frail machine.  Side-slips and nose-dives troubled him

but little, provided he was flying at a safe altitude.

"A jolly good wipe-out!" he exclaimed.  "There won't be many Bosches

left within half a mile of that battery, I'm thinking.  Now watch when

the next shot lands: that will give you the objective."

A sharp buzzing in the receiver attached to Ross's flying helmet

announced that the monitor was "calling up" her observer.  Quickly the

lad seized the pencil, and gave the signal that he was ready to take

down the message.

The Morse signal, when translated into writing, was as follows:--

"Register Position 47."

"Good!" exclaimed the Plight-Sub when Ross had telephoned him the

message.  He consulted his map, which was similar to the one at the

observer's disposal "Position 47: that's a railway junction."

In the course of their work of fortifying Zeebrugge, the Huns had

constructed a double-track railway, passing within a few yards of the

Dutch frontier for several miles before heading straight for the new

submarine base.  Two miles from Zeebrugge the line joined the existing

railway, the junction being recorded on British airmen's maps as

Position 47.

The time was now ripe for the monitor which had successfully demolished

the redoubt to attempt a similar exploit, namely, to destroy the

junction.

The sea-plane's appearance was the signal for a furious fire from the

numerous anti-aircraft guns mounted in the vicinity of the station.

At six thousand feet the risk of being hit was small, while the height

did not prevent the observer making a fairly accurate register of the

hits.

It was a very long range, but the monitor's 14-inch guns did excellent

work.  Seven shells sufficed to reduce the station to a heap of ruins

and blow whole sections of the line to atoms.

Again came a wireless order:

"Sea-plane to proceed to Zwilhuit.  Attempt destruction of bridge

across canal."

Once more the Flight-Sub smiled.  This was work that suited him

immensely.  For the nonce "spotting" was finished with.  The sea-plane

had to drop her cargo of bombs upon an important strategic position.

"All right!" exclaimed the Flying officer.  "Keep a cool head.  When I

give the word, press that pedal under your right foot.  Bend down and

you'll find a safety pin just above the floor.  Remove it, but be jolly

careful not to touch the pedal until I give the word."

Underneath the fuselage were six bombs hanging from an inclined steel

rod.  These were released by means of a rachet operated by the pedal to

which the Flight-Sub had alluded.  To prevent a premature release the

pedal was "locked" by a safety device.  When this was removed, each

depression of the pedal would result in the liberation of a potent

missile of destruction.

The sea-plane was not alone on her errand.  In her wake flew two more,

for the actual bombardment had now ceased, and the air-craft were at

liberty to engage upon a raid several miles inland.

The Huns had not constructed their strategic railway close to the Dutch

frontier without a cunning reason.  Extreme care had to be exercised by

British airmen, since it was an easy matter for a bomb to drop across

the border.  Nothing would please the Germans better, for at once there

would be a case of violation of Dutch territory.  On the other hand,

the Huns had no scruple in mounting a battery of anti-aircraft guns,

training them in such a manner that the earthward flight of spent

shrapnel would assuredly fall upon the Dutch village of Venterloos,

which was separated from Zwilhuit by a distance of less than four

hundred yards.

In twenty minutes the sea-plane's objective came in sight: a broad line

of railway crossing a canal by means of a steel bridge.  It was evident

that the Germans meant this base to be a permanent one, for the bridge

was of massive construction, strong enough to bear the transport of the

heavy 42-centimetre guns, and yet sufficiently high above the waterway

to admit the passage of large lighters with towering deck-cargoes.

"Stand by!" cautioned the Flight-Sub.  "Keep cool.  Do as well as you

have already done, and everything will go like greased lightning."

Volplaning at an acute angle, the sea-plane swooped down upon her

quarry.  Shrapnel shells burst over, in front, behind, and underneath

her.  It seemed impossible that such a frail object could escape

destruction.

At five hundred feet the Flight-Sub checked her downward course.

"Now!" he ordered.  "And again!"

Two puffs of white smoke marked the points of explosion of the powerful

bombs.  One had fallen fifty yards short of the bridge; the other had

burst almost at the junction of the railway lines.

Round spun the sea-plane.  As she turned Ross could discern the second

of the aerial raiders gliding down, while the third was still at a

great altitude.  Before the one in which Ross was flying could again

soar over its target the second sea-plane had dropped three of her

missiles.  All fell close to the bridge.  The work of demolition was

accomplished, for when the smoke and dust cleared away the substantial

fabric had been precipitated, a mass of twisted steel, into the canal.

"THE WORK OF DEMOLITION WAS ACCOMPLISHED"

"Two more on the station and then we've finished," exclaimed the

Flight-Sub.  "Ready?"

"Ay, ay!" replied Ross.

He turned his head to watch the progress of the other sea-planes.  One

was still maintaining a terrific altitude, and showed no signs of

making a volplane.

The other was nowhere to be seen.  Perhaps it was as well that the

midshipman had not noticed what had befallen her, for a few seconds

previously a shrapnel shell had burst close underneath the chassis.

The explosion had communicated itself to the remaining bombs, with the

result that utter annihilation had overtaken the plucky British airmen

in the moment of their triumph.

Ross's companion had witnessed the catastrophe.  More, his trained eye

had discerned half a dozen small specks in the western sky.  Quickly he

brought his binoculars to bear upon them.  No mistake now; the specks

revealed themselves as German aviatiks intent upon cutting off the

retreat of the two remaining British air-craft.

Not until Ross had dropped the remaining bombs did his companion speak.

"We've a bit of a shooting match on," he announced.  "Get that rifle

ready.  It's under the coaming on your right hand.  Sight at three

hundred yards, and let rip when I give the word."

Ross took up the weapon almost as a matter of course.  After the

excitement of bomb-dropping and being shelled by shrapnel, the approach

of a fleet of Zeppelins would hardly disturb his equanimity.

Already the third sea-plane, having gained a favourable altitude, was

making straight for her numerous opponents.

The Flight-Sub now began to speed his machine up, climbing in short

spirals, so as to gain what was equivalent to the "weather-gauge" in

the sea battles of Nelson's days.

Ross unslipped the rifle.  Mechanically he set the back-sight, and

jerked open the bolt-action to assure himself that the magazine was

charged.  As he did so he became aware that the cartridges were bent

and buckled.  A piece of shrapnel, passing through the side of the

fuselage, had lodged in the magazine of the rifle.  In addition,

although it was possible to withdraw the bolt, the striking-pin had

jammed.  As a weapon the rifle was useless.  By stopping the shrapnel

bullet the rifle had saved Ross from a serious and perhaps mortal wound.

The midshipman was on the point of reporting the disablement of the

weapon, when the motor gave vent to a peculiar cough and abruptly

stopped.  Unknown to the pilot the petrol-tank had been pierced almost

at its lowest point.  The remaining petrol had been used up during the

spiraling process.  The sea-plane was now at an altitude of three

thousand feet; propulsion, except under the force of gravity, was no

longer possible.

The Flight-Sub was quick to act.  Before the hitherto climbing

air-craft began diving tail downwards, he regulated the elevating

planes, and a long volplane ensued.  The sea-plane was bound to come to

earth, but it was not on hostile soil that the airman hoped to alight.

His goal was the ground beyond the seemingly endless line of barbed

wire that marked the frontier between Belgium and Holland.

The anti-aircraft guns had now opened fire, blazing furiously away at

the rapidly descending sea-plane.  The rapidity of her descent saved

her, for, before the time-fuses could be altered to suit the

ever-varying range, the air-craft was well below the bursting-point of

the missiles.  Nothing but a direct hit--a most difficult matter--could

harm her now.

At a thousand feet she passed the border-line.  Still the Archibalds

barked.  Ross could see the Dutch frontier guards bolting for shelter

as the hall of bullets fell on neutral ground.  Not until the sea-plane

was well over the boundary did the guns reluctantly cease fire.

The earth appeared to leap up and meet the descending machine.  It

looked as if a terrific smash were inevitable.  A sea-plane alighting

upon solid ground has a thousand chances against her, for, being

unprovided with landing wheels, she is not adapted to withstand

successfully the impact with the earth.

Cool and collected, the Flight-Sub "flattened her out" to a nicety.  At

forty miles an hour the floats struck the ground.  For twenty yards the

sea-plane skidded, then with a rending crash the floats and a network

of struts and tension-wires gave way under the abnormal strain.  The

next instant Ross found himself sprawling on the sandy soil, the sudden

jerk tearing his securing-belt from its fastenings.

He sat up.  A multitude of dazzling lights seemed to flash before his

eyes.  He was dimly aware of a tangle of wreckage, out of which a

practically undamaged plane rose at an oblique angle, lumbering the

ground quite twenty yards from where he found himself.  Men were

hastening towards the wrecked sea-plane from all directions, but, thank

Heaven, they did not wear the uniform of the Hun.

With his head still whirling, Ross was supported by two Dutch soldiers,

while a third poured a quantity of raw spirits down his throat.  Blood

was streaming from a gash on his forehead, and his knees, grazed and

discoloured, were visible through rents in his trousers.

Of what happened during the next quarter of an hour, the midshipman had

but a very hazy idea.  The men had laid him on the ground, propping him

against a large stone.  He felt horribly sick.  The pain across his

chest, caused by the strain upon the leather belt, was acute--far worse

than the wound on his forehead which the kindly soldiers were bathing

with handkerchiefs dipped in water.

The men were talking excitedly.  He could not understand what they were

saying.  He felt inclined to tell them to shut up.  They irritated him

beyond measure; if only they would go away and leave him in peace he

would be deeply grateful.

Suddenly it dawned upon him that he had been in an awful smash.  The

wrecked sea-plane had not hitherto led the train of his thoughts to the

subject of the accident.  Now he realized his position.

"Where's my companion?" he asked,  "Is he knocked out?"

"Do not yourself fret," said a voice that sounded far away.  "He is

hurt, but badly not at all.  We him have carried away.  I am a doctor.

You quiet must be, and zen recovery rapide will be."

The doctor--a Dutch army surgeon--ran his hands lightly over the lad's

limbs.

"Goot!" he ejaculated.  "Nodings broken is."

He gave directions to the men in attendance.  A stretcher was laid on

the ground beside the lad.  Two men lifted him gently upon it.  Even as

they did so, Ross gave a low groan and passed into merciful oblivion.

CHAPTER XXVII

Not on Parole

"Ver' goot.  I understan' you no give parole?"

"No, sir," replied the Flight-Sub firmly.

"An' you, mynheer?"

"I am in the same boat, sir," replied Ross.

The camp-commandant smiled--a hearty smile, bordering on a laugh.

"Goot, I understan' also," he reiterated.  Then, shaking a podgy little

finger, he added: "Same boat, ah?  English idiomatic expression?  Ver'

well, it is so; but if you make escape, do not let me you catch.  Zat

is all."

A week had elapsed since the involuntary descent of the sea-plane.

Both officers were making rapid progress towards recovery, for, in

spite of the violence of the impact, neither of them had received

anything worse than contusions and bruises.

After three days in hospital at Utrecht, the interned aviators were

transferred to a small concentration camp at the village of Koedijk, a

short distance from Alkmaar.  A few miles to the westward, and beyond

an expanse of sand dunes, was the North Sea.  The temptation to refuse

to give their parole was not to be wondered at, with the call of the

sea so near at hand.  It was, indeed, rather remarkable that the two

officers had not been sent to the large internment camp at Groningen,

where so many of the ill-fated Naval Brigade languished, if not in

captivity, in a state of enforced and tedious detention.

"We'll have to be doubly careful now," remarked the Flight-Sub.  "The

mere fact that we have declined to give our parole will put the

commandant on his guard.  Our best plan will be to mark time for a bit."

"Marking time is always an unsatisfactory business," protested the

energetic Ross.  "Nothing rusts a fellow like inaction.  It wouldn't be

much of a task to tunnel our way out."

The Flight-Sub shook his head.

"Tunnelling's not much good in this water-logged country," he declared.

"We are not water-rats.  Patience, my festive: where there's a will

there's a way."

Their quarters consisted of a long, two-storied building.  The only

other occupants beside the guards, were three British Naval officers

rescued from a mined trawler that had managed to reach Dutch waters

before foundering.  Two of them had broken legs; the third was down

with double pneumonia, the legacy of many a cold, stormy night in the

North Sea.

Surrounding the house was a high brick wall, on which had been recently

placed a triple row of barbed wire.  At the entrance, an archway about

ten feet in height, stood a wooden sentry-box, where a soldier with

rifle and fixed bayonet kept guard in the leisurely manner of the

stolid Dutch menfolk.  One could imagine him, a picturesque figure in

baggy trousers and coat of fantastic cut, smoking his pipe on the quay

at Volendam.  The blue uniform did not form a fitting mantle for his

corpulent form.

The sentry was one of a type.  The rest of the guards--middle-aged men

called up on mobilization--were much of the same build and demeanour.

Their innate love of gossiping tempted them to be on most friendly

terms with the interned officers.  One and all were violently

pro-British.  They had reason to dread the German menace, for they were

level-headed enough to realize that, with the Central Powers

triumphant, the independence of Holland would be a thing of the past.

Adjoining the grounds were the quarters occupied by interned seamen, to

the number of about sixty.  They were strictly guarded; a formidable

double fence of barbed wire, between which armed sentries patrolled,

enclosed the premises.  For discipline, the men were under the orders

of their own petty officers.

"Jolly good luck to you!" exclaimed one of the wounded officers, to

whom the two new-comers confided their intention of escaping.  "If we

three weren't crocked we should have been across the ditch by this

time."

He pointed seawards as he spoke.  From the upper windows of the

building the sunlit sea could be seen.  Beyond the "ditch", as he

termed it, was England and freedom.

"It's no use trying to break out," he continued.  "German spies as

thick as blackberries along the coast.  The most benevolent-looking

mynheer might, as likely as not, be a kultured Hun.  You have to be

smuggled out.  Try your blandishments on old Katje."

"Old who?" asked the Flight-Sub.

"Katje, the old vrouw who calls for the washing.  She comes every

Tuesday and Friday with a cart drawn by dogs, and a basket big enough

to stow the pair of you.  You'll want plenty of palm oil.  There are

the sentries to be squared, and the fellow who provides you with a suit

of 'mufti'.  Wilson, our Lieutenant-Commander, got clear about a month

ago.  He made his way to Ymuiden."

"Wasn't there a row about it?" asked Ross.

"Naturally," replied the wounded officer.  "We had a pretty strenuous

time after it--certain privileges withdrawn and all that sort of thing.

However, when we heard that Wilson had succeeded in making his way to

England we didn't mind that, and things have now recovered their normal

appearance."

On the following Tuesday, Ross and his companion anxiously awaited the

arrival of Vrouw Katje.  At length the old lady--she was nearly

eighty--drove up in style, shouting shrilly to her dogs from her perch

on top of an enormous wicker hamper.

"More washing for you, Katje," announced one of the crippled officers.

"Two more of my countrymen.  They will be very pleased to see you."

Without further ado, Katje ascended the stairs and hammered violently

upon the door of the sitting-room.

Her knowledge of English was good, for earlier in life she was the wife

of the skipper of a bolter that made regular voyages to Hole Haven at

the mouth of the Thames, where a large eel trade was in the hands of

the Dutch fishermen.

"Very well; but I must ask permission of the Commandant," replied

Katje, in perfect good faith, when the Flight-Sub had broached the

subject of being conveyed from the internment camp.

"No, no," protested the young officer in alarm; "that won't do."

"Why not?" persisted the washerwoman.  "Mynheer the Commandant is very

kind."

"Undoubtedly," replied the Flight-Sub.  "But we would much rather that

you wait until we are away from the place before you ask him.  See,

here are five English sovereigns.  They are yours once you get us

clear."

The vrouw shook her head.

"I do not care to," she replied firmly; then without a pause she

continued: "My son-in-law, Jan van Beverwijk, will.  I am sure he will.

Next Friday he will come instead of me.  He is mate of a steamship that

takes the bulbs from Holland to England.  He returns to-morrow, and

sails on Saturday from Ymuiden."

"That sounds excellent," commented the Flight-Sub.

"It is excellent," agreed Katje.  "It will cost you each twenty English

sovereigns."

"But we haven't ten between us."

The vrouw smiled till her weather-beaten face was one mass of deep

wrinkles.

"You English have a proverb about a road," she remarked.

"'It's a long lane that has no turning?'" quoted the officer; but Katje

shook her head.

"'Where there's a will there's a way'," suggested Ross.

"Ah!  That is it.  I knew it was something about a road or a lane.

Way, you call it.  Very well; by next Friday you will find a way."

"Artful old baggage!" exclaimed the Flight-Sub when Katje had taken her

departure.  "She's mighty keen on the rhino.  We'll have to have a whip

round, Trefusis, and give a note of hand."

Their brothers in adversity willingly responded to the call, and before

the eventful Friday a sum in English and Dutch coinage, equivalent to

forty pounds, was ready to be handed to Jan van Beverwijk.

"I wouldn't pay cash on the nail if I were you," suggested the crippled

officer who had been so useful in advising them before.  "Half down,

and the rest when you land in England.  Jan might object, but he'll

give in.  No Dutchman of his standing would shut his eyes to twenty in

hard cash."

At eight o'clock on Friday morning Katje's dog-team romped up; but,

instead of the old vrouw, a lean, leather-faced man with a long coat

reaching to his heels and a flat-topped peak cap strode beside the cart.

At the gate he stopped, and spoke at considerable length with the

sentry.  There was hardly any expression on the faces of the two men as

they talked.  Whether the soldier fell in with the suggestion, Ross,

who was anxiously watching from the window, could not decide.

Presently Jan stooped to fasten the strap of one of his _klompen_, or

wooden shoes; then shouting to the dogs he came towards the house.

Before he had gone very far, the sentry bent and picked up something

that was lying on the spot where Jan had been attending to his footgear.

"Palm oil!" remarked the Flight-Sub laconically.

"Heavy wash to-day," was Jan's greeting as he deposited his heavy

basket in the corridor.  "Spot cash, down on the nail."

"Your knowledge of English is remarkable," said the Flight-Sub affably.

"It has to be," rejoined the Dutchman stolidly.

"We have only twenty pounds," declared the Sub.  "That we will give you

as soon as we are on board and in English waters.  The balance Mr.

Brown will give you on your return, on receipt of a note from us to the

effect that we are safely home."

"It cannot be done," said Jan.

"Then the deal's off," remarked the Flight-Sub coolly; but he

ostentatiously poured the coins from his right hand into his left

before returning them to his pocket.

The Dutchman capitulated.

"Very good," he said.  "I can trust an English Naval officer, although

many a time have I been done in London.  Get in, one of you."

"But the other?" enquired the Sub.

"I am strong, but I am not a Hercules," replied the Dutchman with a

shrug of his shoulders.  "One I can carry to the cart.  To-day is a

heavy wash, so I must return for a second load.  You twig?"

"In you get, Trefusis," ordered his companion, in a tone that would

brook no refusal.

By dint of hunching his shoulders and bending his knees, Ross managed

to get into the basket.  The lid was shut, and Jan, assisted by the

Sub, lifted the heavy load on to his shoulders.

Jolting over the cobble-stones, the cart proceeded at a rapid pace for

nearly a quarter of an hour.  Then Jan called to the dogs to stop.  The

lid was thrown back and Ross told to get out.

He found himself outside a small cottage by the side of a canal.  Katje

was on her knees washing a bundle of clothes; the operation assisted,

with disastrous results to the interned officers' effects, by means of

two large stones with which she pounded the saturated garments.

Without even turning her head to watch the midshipman's exit from the

basket, she proceeded vigorously with her task.

Jan led him into the cottage and pointed to a heap of clothes.

"Put these on you," he said.  "I will now go for your friend."

Before the Flight-Sub rejoined him, Ross was rigged out as a Dutch

youth, in voluminous trousers, long coat, stock, tall cylindrical hat,

green stockings, and wooden shoes.  His companion had to look twice

before he recognized him.

"Now you come with me to Mynheer Guit," said Jan.  "He is a bulb

merchant, and lives just outside Ymuiden.  You will then go on board a

barge that brings the boxes of bulbs from Mynheer Guit's warehouse to

the ship.  I will be with you.  The men in the barge will say nothing.

Before to-night you will be safe on board the _Hoorn_."

Jan was as good as his word.  That night the fugitives slept

comfortably in the cabin of the mate of the steamship _Hoorn_; and at

tide-time, early on Saturday morning while it was still dark, the

vessel glided between the breakwater of Ymuiden, and shaped a course

for the mouth of the Thames.

CHAPTER XXVIII

Almost Recaptured

"What's that light, Jan?" asked the Flight-Sub.

The _Hoorn_ was now well beyond the three-mile limit.  Ross and his

fellow-passenger were standing aft, sheltering from the keen

south-westerly wind.  The mate of the vessel was with them, the skipper

being on the bridge.

"Those lights?" corrected Jan.  "They have been visible all the time.

They are the two white leading-lights to Ymuiden harbour."

"No, I don't mean those," said the Flight-Sub.  "Away to the south'ard,

quite a mile from the harbour.  See, it's showing again."

From the dunes a white light blinked thrice and then disappeared.

"I do not know," answered Jan gravely.  He thought for a moment and

then said: "Half a mo'.  I will speak to the skipper."

"Hanged if I like it," muttered the Flight-Sub.  "I say, Trefusis, that

light blinking away looks very fishy.  It would mean a fifty-pound fine

in England; but here, apparently, it is not objected to."

The skipper and the mate were talking rapidly.  Both men were leaning

over the after side of the bridge-rails, with their eyes fixed upon the

dark shore from which the mysterious light flickered at regular

intervals.

"Light on the port bow," reported the helmsman.  Both of the _Hoorn's_

officers turned just in time to catch sight of a steady white light

before it disappeared.  Whatever its meaning, it was remarkable that

from that moment the shore light ceased to blink.

"Put out our navigation lamps, Jan," said the skipper.  "Someone has

betrayed your English friends.  Nevertheless I will do all in my power

to aid them.  We'll steer south-west for an hour.  Perhaps we may

outwit yon craft, whatever she may be, before dawn."

Ross and his companion were quick to note the alteration of helm.  They

knew, too, that the removal of the steaming-lights was for the purpose

of baffling what must be, to a dead certainty, a German craft--a

submarine, or perhaps a torpedo-boat, since the latter frequently

ventured out of Borkum and crept stealthily towards the Schelde,

keeping close to the Dutch territorial waters in order to avoid being

snapped by the vigilant British destroyer flotilla.

Slowly the wintry day dawned.  Anxiously the British officers scanned

the horizon.  The low-lying Dutch coast was now invisible.  All around

was a waste of grey, tumbling waves, unbroken by a sail of any

description.

The _Hoorn_ was ploughing her way at a modest ten knots.  Short, beamy,

and deep-draughted, she was pitching heavily, sending a frothy bow wave

far to leeward each time she dipped her nose into the steep seas.

"I'd give a fiver for the sight of a good old White Ensign at the

present moment," remarked the Flight-Sub anxiously.  "Good heavens,

what's that?"

Ten seconds later he laughed mirthlessly.

"Nerves going to blazes," he muttered.  "A bit of wreckage gave me the

jumps.  By Jove, don't we look a pair of comical objects?"

They had discarded their grotesque head-dress.  Ross had a woollen

muffler wrapped round his head, while his companion had been given the

loan of a red stocking-cap, but they still retained the weird garb in

which they had made their journey down the ship canal.

Suddenly Ross gripped his companion's arm and pointed with his right

hand to a spar-like object projecting a few feet, close to the waves,

at less than a cable's length on the port quarter.

"A periscope!" ejaculated the Flight-Sub.

"Let's hope it's one of our own submarines," said Ross.

"We'll soon find out," added his companion.  "It's forging ahead.

Whatever it is, they've got us under observation."

Jan, who was now on the bridge, had his attention called to the

disconcerting fact.  He beckoned to his two passengers.

"You had better go below and stow yourselves away," he suggested.  "We

will be boarded before long."

"Not I," replied the Flight-Sub.  "They've marked us already.  If they

do take us they won't have to dig us out of a coal-bunker."

The submarine was emerging.  At a pace that more than held its own with

the _Hoorn_, she shook herself clear of the water, although green seas

were breaking across the flat deck as far aft as the conning-tower.

Then muffled forms clambered through the hatchway; a young,

yellow-bearded officer appeared on the navigation platform and hailed

the _Hoorn_ in Dutch to heave to instantly.

Even then the tough old Dutch skipper was not going to give in without

a protest.

"For what reason?" he shouted back.  "This is a Netherlands ship."

"That I do not doubt," rejoined the officer of the submarine.  "But you

have two Englishmen on board who have broken their parole----"

"You lie!" interrupted the skipper vehemently.

"Not a word more!" exclaimed the German fiercely.  "Heave to, or we

sink you!"

Reluctantly the "old man" gave the order to stop the engines.  Jan,

sliding down the bridge ladder, communicated to the British officers

the text of the conversation.

"Some rascal of a German spy has betrayed you," he added.  "If I could

lay my hands upon him----"

There was a look on the Dutchman's face which showed that his anger was

genuine.

"All right, Jan," said the Flight-Sub.  "It's the fortune of war."

      *      *      *      *      *

"Deucedly rotten morning," remarked Sub-lieutenant Fox as he greeted

the officer of the watch, whom he was about to relieve.

Eccles, the Lieutenant, who had been on the _Capella's_ bridge for four

long and dreary hours, merely nodded sleepily.  He was thinking, with

feelings of satisfaction, of the hot coffee and fragrant bacon and eggs

awaiting him below.  Three minutes had to elapse before eight bells.

Wearily he rubbed his salt-rimmed eyelids with a heavily gloved hand.

"_Taurus_ wirelessed twenty minutes ago," he reported, as the two

officers entered the chart-room.  "She was then at the extreme limit of

her northerly course.  You ought to sight her very shortly.  Here's our

course"--he indicated the pencilled line on the chart.  "Nothing to

report: there never is when I'm officer of the watch.  It's this

infernal monotony that plays havoc with a fellow's nerves."

Noel Fox nodded sympathetically.  Although the _Capella_ had been only

six days on her new station--keeping a watch on the Dutch coast between

the Texel and the North Hinder Lightship--he, too, was mightily "fed

up" with the task of "treading on the tail of Germany's coat".

Not so much as the periscope of a hostile submarine had been sighted.

The German torpedo-boats that occasionally sneaked southwards from

Borkum were taking an enforced holiday.  Perhaps it was in sympathy

with the "High Seas Fleet" skulking in the Kiel Canal.  In any case,

the six motor craft of the _Capella_ class had a full share of wintry

conditions in the North Sea without any compensating adventures to

mitigate the monotony.

As Eccles descended from the bridge, a great-coated muffled-up figure,

followed by a large dog, swung himself up the ladder.

"Morning, Haye," was Noel Fox's salutation, as he stooped to pat Shrap,

the chartered libertine of the _Capella_.  "Dash it all, it is cold!

Makes a fellow wish he were a sheep-dog.  Here, Shrap, off you go and

get your whiskers trimmed.  I can see Tomkins waiting for you."

The dog needed no second order.  Every morning just after eight bells

Shrap would be taken over by the watch below.  Every man took a delight

in combing the animal's long hair, until Shrap's coat was the pride of

the _Capella's_ crew and the envy of the rest of the flotilla, whose

mascots never aspired to be more than a tame rat, parrot, or canary.

"Sail on the port bow, sir," bawled the look-out.

The Sub and the midshipman promptly levelled their telescopes.  A small

cargo-steamer was pitching and rolling as she forged slowly ahead on a

westerly course.  Although she was fairly discernible against the pale

grey of the eastern sky, it could be taken for granted that from the

Dutchman's bridge the neutral-grey-painted _Capella_ would be

practically invisible.

"She's slowing down," declared Vernon.

"What on earth for?" enquired the Sub.  "She couldn't possibly have

spotted us.  Starboard your helm, quartermaster.  Good!  Keep her at

that.  We'll get her to make her number, if nothing else."

Again Noel Fox levelled his telescope.  Then he thrust it into a rack

on the side of the chart-room, and bellowed:

"Turn up, both watches.  Action stations.  Submarine ahead."

His quick glance had discerned the after part of a large unterseeboot

as she ranged alongside the Dutchman, whose high sides screened most of

the submarine from the _Capella_, and conversely prevented the Germans

clustered amidships from noticing the approach of the swift British

patrol-vessel.

For the next few minutes, all was bustle and orderly confusion on board

the _Capella_.  Taking three steps at a time, Captain Syllenger gained

the bridge, closely followed by Eccles, to whom the sudden interruption

of a hearty breakfast came as a welcome call.

At a terrific pace the sleuth-hound of the sea tore towards the

_Hoorn_, for such she was.  Rounding under her squat counter, and

reversing engines, the _Capella_ brought up within fifty yards of the

submarine before the astonished Germans could realize their precarious

plight.

"Surrender, or I sink you!" roared Captain Syllenger.

The grim muzzles of the _Capella's_ 4.7's, trained at a point-blank

range, were a conclusive argument.  Without waiting for orders, the

majority of the unterseeboot's crew held up their arms.  For a brief

instant did her Kapitan hesitate.

"Me surrender," he replied.

"Very good; I accept your surrender," replied the _Capella's_ skipper.

"But understand, any attempt to open the sea-cocks will mean that no

quarter will be given.  Order all hands below, and leave the hatchways

open.  You will oblige me by proceeding on board His Majesty's ship

_Capella_."

By this time the _Hoorn_ was forging ahead, since she was in danger of

drifting down upon the captured submarine.  In the excitement of the

capture, no one on board noticed two grotesquely garbed men on the

_Hoorn_ whose antics resembled those of a pair of demented creatures;

nor was the presence of a couple of dejected German leutnants and five

seamen, stranded on board the Dutchman, observed, as the Huns

frantically besought the obdurate skipper of the _Hoorn_ to steam as

hard as he could towards the Dutch coast.

It was Vernon Haye's duty to take the cutter and board the prize.  It

was a hazardous piece of work, for the sea was now fairly high, and

breaking under the effect of tide against wind; but, with the exception

of a broken top-strake, the boat managed to lie sufficiently close

alongside the submarine to enable the midshipman and five seamen to

board.

Already the German crew were below.  Hatches were lowered and secured,

with the exception of the one in the after side of the conning-tower.

This could be left open without fear of the submarine being swamped,

while, to prevent the captured crew closing it and making an attempt to

dive, the steel cover was removed from its hinges and secured on deck.

The Black Cross flag was hauled down and rehoisted under the White

Ensign, and preparations were made to take the prize in tow.

It was some time before a grass rope, to which a stout wire hawser was

bent, could be veered from the _Capella's_ quarter and taken on board

the submarine, but eventually the hawser was made fast.

"Now, sir," said Vernon, addressing the German Kapitan.  "Will you

please step into that boat?  Where are the other officers?"

"In that ship," replied the Hun sullenly, as he pointed towards the

_Hoorn_.  "They will not welcome you, but there are others who will."

Not knowing what the German meant, Vernon indicated that he should get

on board the cutter.

"There are two German officers on board that vessel, air," reported the

midshipman, as the boat came alongside the _Capella_.  "Am I to bring

them off?"

Captain Syllenger hesitated before replying.  It was a knotty problem.

To remove by force the subjects of a hostile nation from a neutral ship

was contrary to international law.  However much the Germans violated

the "right of search", it was not Great Britain's policy to engage upon

reprisals.  Holland, although a third-rate Power, had to be treated

with due courtesy.

"It's all the same in the long run," replied Captain Syllenger.  "Board

that vessel, Mr. Haye, and see what those fellows are doing there.  If

the Dutch skipper objects to their presence on his hooker, then bundle

them into the boat.  If, on the other hand, he protests against their

removal, let them remain.  They will be collared as soon as the ship

enters our three-mile limit."

The _Hoorn_ had once more come to a dead stop, at two cables' length

from the British patrol-vessel.

As the _Capella's_ cutter came alongside, Vernon agilely scrambled up

the "monkey ladder" and gained the deck.

"Hulloa, old man!" exclaimed a well-known voice.

Vernon looked at the speaker.  He knew the voice, but for a moment he

failed to recognize in the oddly garbed youth his chum Ross Trefusis.

Then he grinned broadly.

"My word!" he exclaimed.  "You do cut a pretty figure."

Had they been of any nationality but British, the lads would have

fallen on each other's necks and perhaps kissed each other.  Instead,

they stood a yard apart and laughed--but their mutual joy was none the

less genuine.

"So you've come to fetch the German Leutnant and his boat's crew," said

Ross, after Haye had been introduced to the Flight-Sub.  "He's

somewhere below.  You'll recognize him right enough."

"Eh?" asked Vernon incredulously.

"Rather!" declared Ross emphatically.  "You'd never guess.  It's our

old pal, Hermann Rix, late of U75.  No wonder he's tearing his hair,

for he must have broken his parole.  He knew me directly he came over

the side, and didn't forget to rub it in.  You should have seen his

face when, in the midst of his beastly gibes, the old _Capella_ came

snorting up."

With Jan acting as interpreter, Vernon put his case before the Dutch

skipper, who seemed only too delighted at the way events had turned.

His satisfaction at getting rid of his Hunnish visitors was evident, in

spite of the stolidity of his manners.

"I want no pirates on board the _Hoorn_," he said.  "Take them and

welcome!"

While the Flight-Sub and Ross were "squaring up" with the good-hearted

Jan, Vernon rounded up Ober-leutnant Rix and his boat's crew.  Finding

that their protests to the Dutch skipper were of no avail, they

sullenly gave in.

"Look here," said Ross, taking his chum aside.  "I don't want to crow

over that fellow.  It isn't cricket.  You might take him to the

_Capella_ and come back for us.  You'll have a pretty good load as it

is."

"Two British officers, escaped from an internment camp, on board the

_Hoorn_, sir," reported Vernon, as he delivered his cargo of German

prisoners on board the _Capella_.  "They would like to be taken off."

"Carry on, then," replied Captain Syllenger.

As the cutter returned from her second trip to the _Hoorn_, the

_Capella's_ crew awaited with undisguised curiosity the arrival of the

men who had contrived to escape from irksome detention in a neutral

country.

Presently Shrap, who was sitting up on the quarterdeck, gave a bark of

delight.

"Good old Shrap!" said Ross.  "He knew me in spite of my rig-out."

"Blow me, if it ain't Mr. Trefusis!" exclaimed one of the men.

The next instant the first of three hearty cheers burst from the

throats of the crew, with whom Ross was a great favourite.  The

Dutchmen, too, joined in, to the accompaniment of a prolonged blast

upon the _Hoorn's_ siren as she resumed her interrupted voyage.

"It's like being home again," declared Ross, after Captain Syllenger

and the other officers had congratulated him.  "But, I say, can anyone

lend me a decent suit of togs?"

CHAPTER XXIX

Bound for the Baltic

A fortnight had elapsed since the day on which H.M.S. _Capella_ towed

the captured unterseeboot into Harwich harbour.  Since then she had

been attached to a base on the East coast of Scotland, her sphere of

usefulness in the English Channel being a thing of the past.

The German blockade had fizzled out like a damp squib.  Absolutely

afraid to risk the remaining boats in operations that would certainly

end in their being unceremoniously conveyed to Davy Jones's locker, the

German Admiralty had dispatched them to the Mediterranean, where, under

the Austrian flag, they attempted, at first with a certain degree of

success, to terrorize merchantmen by their "frightfulness".

So the _Capella_ had been ordered to Cromarty Firth, pending the

completion of arrangements for sending a fleet of swift destroyers and

patrol-boats to operate in conjunction with the British submarines in

the Baltic.

Almost the first duty Ross had to undertake upon arrival was to draw

money for the ship's company from the Paymaster's office at Invergordon.

Accompanied by six seamen, wearing their side-arms and carrying three

canvas bags, the midshipman landed, and proceeded to the office.

Leaving the escort "standing easy", Ross entered the building and found

himself confronted by a door on which was painted the words,

"Accountant Officer".  Underneath was a piece of cardboard on which was

written: "Don't knock--walk in".

The midshipman accepted the invitation and entered.  It was a large

room.  Against one wall were three knee-hole desks, at which were

seated naval "writers"--petty officers detached for clerical work.  Two

more were bending over a large tray, studiously engaged in "putting the

money up", or placing wages in the compartments of the tray in order to

facilitate the forthcoming payment to the civilian workers attached to

the establishment.  At a large desk was an officer, with his head

almost touching a litter of papers.  His back was turned, but Ross

could see by the gold-and-white band that he was an Assistant Paymaster.

Hearing footsteps behind him, the A.P. broke into a torrent of abuse:

"Of all the scatter-brained idiots that act the giddy goat, this

strafed lunatic takes the proverbial ship's biscuit!" he exclaimed.

"Just look here, Carruthers; did you ever see such a piece of arrant

tomfoolery----"

He turned his head, and saw it was not Carruthers.

"Sorry," he said apologetically.  "Thought it was someone else.  You

must have imagined that I was off my head.  It's a wonder I'm not.

Look at this: here am I up to my eyes in work, and I get this sort of

thing fired at me."

Ross looked at the tendered document.  It was headed: "Queries in the

Store Ledger", and the gem to which the harassed A.P. had referred was

as follows:--

"4 oz. tin-tacks.  Please say if these are synonymous with 'tacks

tinned'."

The midshipman laughed.  The A.P. glared.

"Some rotten idiot drawing five hundred a year evidently doesn't

realize it's war-time," he growled.  "Now, what can I do for you?"

At length the midshipman received the necessary coin.  He was about to

leave the officer when he found himself face to face with John Barry,

now a Lieutenant-Commander, R.N.R.

"Bless my soul, Trefusis!" exclaimed Barry cordially.  "I am glad to

see you.  I heard the new _Capella_ was ordered round.  How's everyone?

Thanks, I'm top-hole.  In a deuce of a hurry!  Look here, come on board

and see me to-night.  The _Hunbilker_ is lying off Cromarty.  Can you

manage it?"

"I think so," replied Ross.

"Very good; bring Haye with you.  I'll send a boat at seven bells."

Captain Syllenger readily gave the midshipmen permission.

"It looks as if it might blow a bit before very long," he added.  "If

so, remain on board until morning.  It's no joke making a five-mile

trip in a steamboat on a pitch-dark night with a sea running."

The lads were delighted at the prospect of the visit.  They were both

awfully keen on John Barry; besides, they were rather anxious to see

what sort of command he had.  The ship's name was enough to excite

their curiosity.  She had evidently arrived later than the _Capella_,

for there was no sign of a craft bearing that name when the

patrol-vessel passed Cromarty on the previous afternoon.

Punctually at seven bells a grey motor-boat dashed up alongside the

_Capella's_ gangway.  Shrap, whose instinct told him that his young

master was leaving the ship, anticipated him by making a prodigious

bound from the side into the waiting boat, alighting upon the shoulders

of the coxswain, much to that worthy's astonishment.

"Never mind, sir," replied the man, in answer to Vernon's apologies.

"I've a dog myself at home, very much like this one."

"Let him come with us," suggested Ross.  "He'll kick up an awful row if

you don't."

So Shrap, coiled up in the stern-sheets, had his way.

Having received the midshipmen, the boat turned and threshed its way in

the teeth of a strong easterly breeze.

"Yes, sir, that's the _Hunbilker_," replied the coxswain in answer to

Vernon's query, as a large grey shape loomed through the twilight.

"By Jove!" ejaculated Ross, absolutely taken aback.  "She's a whopper.

Old Barry's got a battleship.  If she isn't a sister ship to the

_Tremendous_, I'm a----"

Fortunately for him, Ross refrained from saying what he might be, for

as things turned out he was wrong.  The _Hunbilker_ commenced her

career as a 6000-ton merchantman, but no one would recognize her as

such.

In all probability, but for the war, she would have ended her career as

such.  But the Navy required her for a certain purpose, and loyally the

old tramp stepped into the breach.  When, after a lapse of nine weeks,

she emerged from the repairing basin, her disguise was complete.  She

looked to be what she was not.  It is, therefore, no cause for

wonderment that the two midshipmen were deceived by the enormous

outlines of what appeared to be a formidable unit of the British Navy.

The _Hunbilker_ was, in short, a maritime ass in lion's skin, but her

role was none the less a responsible one.

"I was rather doubtful whether you would turn up," remarked Barry.

"The glass is dropping like billy-ho, and there's a brute of a sea

tumbling in."

"We need not return to-night," announced Ross.

"That's capital," rejoined the Lieutenant-Commander.  "I'll get the

hands to hoist in the boat and trice the accommodation-ladder up.  We

roll like a barrel in a sea-way."

"You've got a big command this time, sir," said Vernon.

Barry smiled.

"Yes," he replied.  "Plenty of room, but the lighting 'tween decks is

rotten.  All artificial, you know, except the little we get in through

the quarter-deck skylights.  I'm expecting young Jolly; he's the A. P.

you saw ashore at Invergordon.  Not a bad sort of youngster when he's

clear of his work.  Would you like to look round before we go below?"

"Of course the Germans know all about our dummy battleships," continued

Barry as he led the way.  "They jeered at the scheme in the papers as

far back as last November twelvemonth."

"Then what's the object?" asked Ross.

"It muddles them up.  They can't distinguish the _Tremendous_ from this

packet, especially in hazy weather.  They've got to guess which is the

substance and which is the shadow.  From actual results we know now

that the costly experiment has more than justified the expenditure."

The Lieutenant-Commander and his young guests continued to talk shop

until it was time to go below.  From that moment, conversation drifted

into other channels of more or less personal interest.

Presently a loud whistle was heard from without.

"That's Jolly," declared the Lieutenant-Commander.  "It's the last boat

to-night, I fancy."

A few minutes later the A. P., having divested himself of his dripping

oilies and sou'wester, was ushered into the cabin.  Separated from his

duties as Accountant Officer, he was much the same as other men.  Ross

could hardly believe that the jovial officer--for he did not now belie

his name--was the same explosive man who had figuratively lost his head

over four ounces of "tacks tinned".

Dinner over, the four officers drew their chairs close to the fire and

yarned incessantly.  Even the laboured rolling of the ship, the howling

of the wind overhead, and the _chouf chouf_ of the waves as they

slapped against the sides, failed to remind them that they were afloat

and in an exposed anchorage.

"Heard from your sister recently?" enquired Barry, addressing the A. P.

He tried to ask the question in a natural tone of voice, but the

midshipmen were quick to perceive a deepening of the tan in the

Lieutenant-Commander's weather-beaten face.

"Had a letter only this morning," replied Jolly; "a fairly long one,

too.  I suppose things have quieted down a bit after the rush.  My

sister's a double one, you know," he added, turning to Ross and his

chum.

"A what?" asked Ross.

"She's my sister, and she's a nursing sister at a naval hospital,"

explained the A.P.  "There's a very quaint little bit.  I must read it

to you."

He produced an envelope from his pocket.

"'You remember Marjory May?'" he read.  "'She's had her wish.  She

joined here as a probationer, on the day after that terrible destroyer

affair.  We had most of the cases.  One of the patients was a stoker,

who had been knocked about by a shell exploding in a bunker (whatever

that is--it sounds like golf).  Marjorie had her first task--to wash

him before the doctor could operate.  I went to see how she was

progressing, and found the poor girl on the verge of tears.  'Oh,

sister!' she exclaimed; 'I've been scrubbing him for ten minutes, and I

can't get him clean!'  It was rather dull in the ward, so I switched on

the light.  Then I saw the cause of Marjory's distress.  The poor

stoker was a half-caste."

"By Jove!" ejaculated the A.P. as a particularly savage gust laid the

ship well over.  "It isn't half blowing!"

"Yes, my festive friend," agreed Barry; "it is!  Fortunately you are

not due back to-night.  If you were it wouldn't signify, for I wouldn't

order a boat away on a night like this.  To-morrow, if it hasn't

moderated--and the worst is yet to come--we'll weigh and stand up the

Firth into smoother water."

There was a pause in the conversation.  The din without was now

terrific.  One of the worst of the winter gales was approaching its

climax--a furious nor'easter.

"Come in!" shouted Barry as a knock was heard at the cabin door.

"Wireless message, sir," announced one of the ship's boys.

"Very good," replied the Lieutenant-Commander.  Then, after the

messenger had backed out, he started to his feet.

"I say, you fellows!" he exclaimed.  "Here's a pretty kettle of fish:

'Flag to _Hunbilker_: Proceed to sea at once.  Rendezvous Lat. 5° E.,

Long. 57° 30' N.'  That means, whether you like it or whether you

don't, you're bound for the Baltic."

CHAPTER XXX

The Affair off Kiel

Clad in their oilskins over their greatcoats, the two midshipmen

accompanied Barry to the bridge.  The A. P., on second thoughts,

decided to remain below.  He had a rooted objection to getting his

glasses smothered in spray if it could be avoided.

Steam had been raised a week ago, when the _Hunbilker_ left Newcastle

for Cromarty, so there was no delay on that account.  Already the steam

capstan was clanking dolorously as fathom after fathom of chain crept

with seeming reluctance through the hawse-pipe.

It was a night.  Towering seas, sweeping in from the exposed Moray

Firth, surged madly into the more sheltered inlet where the dummy

battleship strained at her cable.  The air was thick with sleet.

Overhead, black clouds scudded rapidly across the moon.

Even though the ship was partly under the lee of the projecting ground,

the midshipmen knew that it would be hopeless to attempt to lower a

boat.  For good or ill they were bound to remain on board.

"Suppose it's all right," remarked Ross.  "We may get a chance of doing

something, far more so than if we were on board the _Capella_, now this

submarine blockade fiasco is finished.  At any rate it's not our fault

we're here."

"But our good fortune," added Vernon.  "Evidently there's a big affair

coming off, though I can't quite see what this vessel's going to do in

it."

For fifteen hours of darkness the _Hunbilker_ plodded steadily onwards.

No lights were shown, yet it was a known fact that at least thirty

vessels of various types were converging upon the rendezvous.

Captain Barry never once quitted the bridge.  Although his lofty post

was constantly deluged by clouds of icy spray, and the weather side of

the bridge-rail canvas was inches deep in sleet, he braved the elements

through watch and watch, snatching a hasty meal of cocoa (which was

cold by the time it reached him) and biscuits under the lee of the

chart-house.

Day dawned at last.  Ross and Vernon, who had gone below to snatch a

few hours' sleep, came on deck to find the _Hunbilker_ at the

rendezvous.  She lay in the midst of a fleet.  There were the great

battle-cruisers, Dreadnoughts and their replicas, light cruisers, and a

galaxy of torpedo-boats--the latter swept from stem to stern by the

waves.

Without any appreciable weakening of the Grand Fleet, this maritime

force had been assembled for particular service--presumably in the

Baltic, although no orders to that effect had yet been received.

All that short January day the fleet steamed slowly eastward, while

signal flags fluttered incessantly.  No hostile submarine put in an

appearance.  Either the Germans feared the swift destroyers that

encircled the large vessels, or else they were in ignorance of the

presence of the British within four hours' steaming of their shores.

It was not until night that the _Hunbilker_ received her orders.  She

had to proceed in advance of the destroyers, and under cover of

darkness pass through the Great Belt.  Having done so, she was to be

run aground on a shoal between the Danish island of Laaland and the

Prussian island of Fehmern, the latter being within forty miles of the

stronghold of the German Navy at Kiel.

Then she was to await developments.  If attacked by submarines, the

British destroyers would dash in; but what the British Admiral fondly

hoped was that the hostile battleships or armoured cruisers would not

be able to resist the temptation of sallying forth from Kiel to give

the supposed Dreadnought her _coup de grâce_.  In this case our

submarines would "chip in", and possibly the battle-cruisers might

score with their deadly and accurate long-range salvoes.

"It's not so risky as it looks," commented Barry as he explained the

tactics to the midshipmen.  "You see, they can torpedo us as much as

they like, and blow the dummy sides of the ship to bits piecemeal.  We

can't sink, since we'll be hard aground.  We can't take fire--at least,

it would be quite a job to get any part of her to burn without being

able to keep the flames under control.  Gunnery, of course, puts a

different aspect on the subject.  If the enemy start shelling us with

their heavy guns, then the sooner we abandon ship and clear out the

better, and leave our big cruisers to mop up the Huns."

Grey dawn was breaking when the _Hunbilker_, having made the passage

through the Great Belt, ran gently aground at the spot indicated in the

Admiral's orders.  Away in the sou'west, a glare in the sky that was

rapidly fading with the growing morn indicated the search-lights of the

Kiel defences.  Eastwards, two huge grey shapes loomed ghost-like in

the half-light.  Whether they were British cruisers or decoys, or even

German battleships, Ross could not determine.

The _Hunbilker_ lay with a slight list to starboard.  All around her

the sea was covered with drifting ice.  An utter stillness brooded over

everything.  The silence was in keeping with the scene of desolation.

Suddenly the deafening blast of the _Hunbilker's_ siren rent the air.

It was the prearranged signal that she was in readiness; it was also

her challenge to the Kiel-tied German fleet.

Ten minutes later a lurid flash, followed by a dull booming noise, came

from the nearmost of the two vessels Ross had previously noticed.

"Either mine or torpedo," remarked Barry casually.  "It doesn't

signify.  They won't sink her in a hurry."

"What is she, sir?" asked Vernon.

"Our opposite number, the _Snark_," replied the Lieutenant-Commander.

"See, she's steaming northwards, without any apparent injury.  It will

be our turn before very long."

At frequent intervals the siren shrieked, as if calling to the rest of

the squadron for assistance.  Then out of the rising mist, for with the

break of day a thin pall of vapour rose from the ice-flecked water,

leapt two German torpedo-boats.

"Port side, all hands!" roared Barry.

Officers and crew put the greatest possible distance between them and

the side of the ship exposed to the hostile craft.  Without slackening

speed, the torpedo-boats described a sharp curve.  Their officers must

have wondered why they were not greeted by the stranded battleship's

quick-firers.  As they turned, two gleaming objects flopped

ungracefully from their decks and disappeared with a splash beneath the

surface.  Each boat had fired a torpedo from her broadside tubes.

From the place where the midshipmen stood, they were not able to follow

the track of the formidable missiles; but they had not long to wait.

Both torpedoes struck almost simultaneously--one abreast of the for'ard

dummy turret, the other fifty feet farther aft.

High in the air rose a column of water mingled with fragments of iron

plating; while in their place of hiding the two lads were smothered

with cork-dust and blackened cotton that had been blown from the space

betwixt the outer and inner hulls.

"It's lucky for us that they didn't use their quick-firers," remarked

Barry.  "They would have pulverized us before our destroyers romped up.

By Jove, Haye, that dog of yours looks as though he likes it!  Hulloa!

There you are!"

The Lieutenant-Commander pointed to the southward.  A rift in the mist

disclosed a two-masted, two-funnelled armoured cruiser about two miles

off.

"The _Prinz Heinrich_ or the _Fürst Bismarck_," declared Barry.  "We've

turned 'em out.  Hope to goodness our little lot will be in time to

snap them up.  Unless I'm much mistaken, there are two more astern of

her."

Almost as he spoke, a spurt of flame rent the dull sky.  Then, to the

accompaniment of a vivid flash and an ear-splitting detonation, a

5.9-inch shell burst against the for'ard dummy turret of the

_Hunbilker_.

When the smoke had cleared away, guns, turret, and conning-tower,

together with a portion of the bridge, had vanished.

"All hands abandon ship!" ordered Barry, as a salvo of light

projectiles flew round, over, and through the decoy.

It was quite time.  Several men had been hit, since there was nothing

to afford complete protection from the hail of shells.  The difficulty

was to find a boat that was seaworthy, since these suffered almost at

once from the flying fragments of metal.

"Hurrah, sir!" shouted one of the men.  "There are our destroyers."

He was right.  Seven British destroyers were tearing through the water,

intent upon giving the Germans the punishment that they had boasted to

inflict upon the strafed Englishmen--a hussar stroke.

Instantly the galling fire ceased.  The German cruiser had all her work

cut out to endeavour to beat off her wasp-like antagonists.

The _Hunbilker_ was doomed.  In spite of elaborate precautions against

fire, she was burning furiously.  Her fo'c'sle was a mass of flames,

generated by the intense heat of the first shell that had struck her.

Smaller fires, too, had started in other parts of the ship.

But help was at hand.  One of the covering destroyers had witnessed her

plight.  Adroitly manoeuvring, she came right alongside the burning

ship.

"Jump, men!" shouted Barry.

There was no time to be lost.  The danger of the flames communicating

with the shells and war-heads on the destroyer's deck was to be taken

into consideration.

"Come on, old man!" exclaimed Ross, as his chum looked anxiously about

him.

"Where's Shrap?" asked Vernon.  "He was here a minute ago."

In the confusion, occasioned by the rush of men to leap upon the

destroyer, the dog had vanished.

Without a word Vernon ran towards the companion leading to the

half-deck.  Above the roar of the flames and the hissing of steam, he

had heard the well-known bark of his pet.

"Silly ass!" muttered Ross; but he, too, followed his chum.

Wreaths of thin smoke were issuing from the companion as Ross gained

the head of the ladder.  Putting his muffler round his mouth, he groped

his way down.  'Tween decks the air was full of smoke.  He could hear

Shrap's insistent bark, and Vernon's voice as, amidst fits of coughing,

he called to his canine companion.

"Whatever is the matter with the brute?" thought Ross, as he fought his

way along the half-deck.

A gaping hole in the ship's side admitted sufficient light to enable

him to discern his comrade backing from one of the cabins.  Shrap was

preceding him, while Vernon was dragging something limp and heavy.  It

was the body of the luckless A. P.

Without a word, for the atmosphere was hot and choky, Ross bore a hand.

Stumbling and slipping, the two lads bore their burden to the

companion, and by dint of much exertion carried Jolly on deck.

"Is he dead?" asked Ross, after he had refilled his lungs with less

smoke-laden air.

"I don't think so," said Vernon.  "It was good old Shrap that found

him."

The A. P. was below when the salvo from the German cruiser struck the

ship.  He had gone to the cabin temporarily allotted to him to obtain

some small but cherished belonging.  A fragment from one of the shells

had inflicted a nasty scalp wound, stretching him senseless upon the

floor.

Had it not been for the sheep-dog, whose sagacity made him recognize

that Jolly was a friend of his master's, the A. P. would have ended his

career in the burning hull of the _Hunbilker_.

"Hurry up!" exclaimed Ross.  "Let's get him aboard the destroyer."

Between them they carried the insensible officer across the

quarter-deck, but as they reached the side abreast the wreckage of the

superstructure they came to an abrupt halt.

The destroyer had sheered off and was out of sight.

"Now what's to be done?" asked Vernon, aghast at the latest turn of

fortune.

They laid the A. P. on the deck and looked over the side.  Still made

fast to the falls was a whaler, with her keel ten feet above water.

When the order had been given to abandon ship, the boat had been

lowered, but the appearance of the destroyer had done away with the

necessity of having to make use of her.

"Lower away!" ordered Ross.

Checking the descent by taking a turn round the cleats, the lads

allowed the whaler to reach the water.  To their satisfaction they

found that she leaked but very little.  Oars and crutches were already

on board, together with mast and sail.

"Down you get," said Ross.  "Let go the after disengaging gear, then

stand by.  I'll let Jolly down to you."

Vernon quickly swarmed down the falls, while his chum carried the A.P.

to the now empty davit.  Taking a few turns with his strong muffler

round the chest of the unconscious man, Ross engaged the hook of the

lower block, and slowly lowered him into Vernon's arms.  Shrap followed

in a similar manner, since the drop was too great for him to leap

without risk of limb.  Then Ross climbed down and gained the boat.  He

was not a minute too soon, for the flames were drawing nearer and the

heat was becoming almost unbearable.

Placing Jolly in the stern-sheets, the lads stepped the mast and

hoisted sail.  Nothing else was in sight, although the rumble of heavy

firing was still audible.

"I'll steer north," declared Ross, who had taken the helm, while Vernon

attended to the A.P.'s ugly wound.  "If we are not picked up by one of

our own boats, we are almost bound to hit one of the Danish islands."

There was but little wind.  What there was, blew from a couple of

points abaft the beam, so that the little craft was able to lie

comfortably upon her course.

At length Jolly opened his eyes.  Somewhat to his companions' amusement

his first words were:

"Dash it all!  Where did I leave my glasses?  Hulloa!  I've been

plugged.  Where am I?"

He attempted to sit up, but promptly subsided upon the gratings in the

stern-sheets, and in a very short time he began to talk incoherently,

and finally dropped off into a fitful slumber.

The fog had now increased in density, so that it was no longer possible

to see more than a hundred yards ahead.  Several vessels moving at high

speed passed within hailing distance, but no reply came to the lads'

shouts.

"There's a hail!" exclaimed Vernon.

Again came the sound of a human voice.  It was a call for aid, and was

uttered in German.

"Steady!" cautioned Vernon, as Ross put the helm down.  "We don't want

to run alongside a cargo of Huns."

"There's only one, I should imagine," replied his chum.  "At any rate

we'll have a look.  If there are too many, we'll sheer off."

Guided by the repeated calls for assistance, the midshipmen came in

sight of a disabled boat.  It had been holed, and was kept afloat only

by some of its air-tanks which had escaped damage.  The gunwales,

jagged by shell-fire, were showing only a few inches above the water.

The stern was almost awash, but the bows rose sufficiently high for the

forefoot to be seen.  Crouching on the for'ard thwart was a German

officer.  He was bareheaded.  The collar of his greatcoat was turned

up.  His face was blanched by the intense cold.  As the whaler

approached and he saw that it was a British one, he held up his hands

in token of surrender.

Dropping to leeward, Ross luffed smartly.  The whaler lost way almost

alongside the waterlogged boat.

Awkwardly the German clambered over the gunwale, for his limbs were

numbed.  Then, as soon as he was safely on board, he drew a revolver

from the pocket of his greatcoat and fired twice in quick succession.

Ross saw his chum throw up his arms and pitch across the centre thwart.

The next instant he felt a stinging pain in his shoulder, as if it were

pierced by a red-hot needle.

"The brute has plugged me!" was the thought that flashed through his

mind, as he subsided heavily upon the grating by the side of the A. P.

He was still conscious, although everything seemed misty.  Up to a

certain point he remembered exactly what happened, for with a sudden

spring Shrap flew at the treacherous Teuton's throat.

Again and again the German fired, wildly and in the air, for the

sheep-dog had him fixed in his unyielding jaws, shaking the fellow like

a rat.  Unable to move a limb, Ross remained conscious until the issue

was decided and victory rested with the devoted Shrap; then his head

dropped upon his chest and everything became a blank.

      *      *      *      *      *

Ross Trefusis recovered consciousness to find himself in hospital on

the East coast.  In the next cot was Jolly, cutting a sorry figure with

his head swathed in surgical bandages.  Vernon was in an adjoining

ward, making a promising recovery from the wound caused by the cowardly

German's bullet that had passed between his ribs, fortunately just

missing his lungs.

It was not until a week later that Ross heard of the manner of his

rescue.  The whaler had been picked up by a destroyer.  In it they

found the three wounded British officers, and a dead German with his

throat fearfully lacerated.  Not only had Shrap saved the situation,

but he had helped still further to save his master's life, for it was

owing to the warmth of the dog's body that Vernon was saved from death

by exposure.

One of the first of visitors to Ross's bedside was John Barry, now

Commander Barry, R.N.R., D.S.O.

"And how did the scrap come off?" asked Ross.

"Fairly well," replied the Commander.  "We bagged a cruiser and a

couple of destroyers.  The old _Hunbilker_ justified her existence, you

see."

"I'm afraid Haye and I are out of the running," remarked Ross

disconsolately.

"Not a bit of it," replied Barry in his breezy way.  "Not a bit of it.

You'll both be as fit as fiddles in a couple of months.  The Navy's

pushing on with the job all right, Ross, but it's slow and sure.

You'll be at it again long before the end."

Ross gave a sigh of satisfaction.

"Sounds promising, sir, doesn't it?" he exclaimed.

By PERCY F. WESTERMAN

"No boy alive will be able to peruse Mr. Westerman's pages without a

quickening of his pulses."--Outlook.

With Beatty off Jutland.  A Romance of the Great Sea Fight.

The Submarine Hunters.  A Story of Naval Patrol Work.

A Lively Bit of the Front.  A Tale of the New Zealand Rifles on the

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A Sub and a Submarine.  The Story of H.M. Submarine R19 in the Great

War.

Under the White Ensign.  A Naval Story of the Great War.  "No one can

tell sea stories like Percy F. Westerman."--Outlook.

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the Belgian Forces.  "No boy will find a dull page in Mr. Westerman's

story."--Bookman.

The Sea-girt Fortress: A Story of Heligoland.  "Mr. Westerman has

provided a story of breathless excitement, and boys of all ages will

read it with avidity."--Athenaeum.

Rounding up the Raider: A Naval Story of the Great War.

The Fight for Constantinople: A Tale of the Gallipoli Peninsula.

"Breathless adventures crowd into this thrilling story....  It teems

with enthralling episodes and vivid word-pictures."--British Weekly.

"The reader sits absolutely spellbound to the end of the

story."--Sheffield Daily Telegraph.

Captured at Tripoli: A Tale of Adventure.

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of the youthful book-lover, either as a prize or

present."--Schoolmaster.

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be peculiarly hard to please."--Liverpool Courier.

A Lad of Grit: A Story of Restoration Times.  "The tale is well

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