THE FRITZ STRAFERS




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




  THE FRITZ STRAFERS
  A STORY OF THE GREAT WAR



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



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




  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER                                            PAGE
       I. "COMING EVENTS...". . . . . . . . . . . . .  13
      II. THE DANGER SIGNAL . . . . . . . . . . . . .  23
     III. THE OBER-LEUTNANT'S JAUNT . . . . . . . . .  34
      IV. FOILED  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  45
       V. THE PURSUIT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  54
      VI. VON LORINGHOVEN LEARNS NEWS . . . . . . . .  62
     VII. BRUNO'S ESCAPADE  . . . . . . . . . . . . .  75
    VIII. TORPEDOED . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  86
      IX. THE SKIPPER OF THE "GUIDING STAR" . . . . .  95
       X. THE BLIMP TO THE RESCUE . . . . . . . . . . 106
      XI. THE STRAFING OF U 254 . . . . . . . . . . . 118
     XII. PRISONERS OF WAR  . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127
    XIII. THE END OF THE "TANTALUS" . . . . . . . . . 135
     XIV. A CHANCE SHOT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143
      XV. LAID BY THE HEELS . . . . . . . . . . . . . 158
     XVI. THE STRUGGLE IN THE LONELY COTTAGE  . . . . 168
    XVII. THE BURNING MUNITION SHIP . . . . . . . . . 176
   XVIII. THE FUGITIVE  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 189
     XIX. BILLY'S FLYING-BOAT  . . . .  . . . . . . . 201
      XX. RAMMED  . . . . .  . . . .  . . . . . . . . 210
     XXI. THE LAST VOYAGE OF S.S. "ANDROMEDA" . . . . 221
    XXII. FARRAR'S FIRST BAG  . . . . . . . . . . . . 233
   XVIII. THE STORM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 246
    XXIV. THE SINKING TRANSPORT . . . . . . . . . . . 254
     XXV. HOLCOMBE'S SURPRISE . . . . . . . . . . . . 262
    XXVI. A FIGHT TO A FINISH . . . . . . . . . . . . 276
   XXVII. IN THE HANDS OF THE HUNS  . . . . . . . . . 291
  XXVIII. "A SECOND KOPENICK HOAX"  . . . . . . . . . 304
    XXIX. A SURPRISE  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 313
     XXX. COMRADES IN A STRANGE LAND  . . . . . . . . 326
    XXXI. A DASH FOR FREEDOM  . . . . . . . . . . . . 337
   XXXII. TOUCH AND GO  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 352
  XXXIII. THE GREAT STRAFE  . . . . . . . . . . . . . 366
   XXXIV. AND LAST  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 376




    LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

    "DEFIANTLY DISPLAYED THE EMBLEM OF
      FREEDOM" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . _Frontispiece_
                                                   FACING
                                                    PAGE
    "A COUPLE OF BLUEJACKETS BURST
      THROUGH THE UNDERGROWTH"  . . . . . . . . . . .  52
    "SEIZING FARRAR, BEGAN TO HAUL HIM OUT OF THE
       COTTAGE, DESPITE A STRENUOUS RESISTANCE" . . . 172
    "'GOOD HEAVENS! IT'S OLD SLOGGER!'" . . . . . . . 324




THE FRITZ STRAFERS


CHAPTER I

"COMING EVENTS..."


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

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

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

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

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

And the still absent Slogger----?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hullo, guard!"

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

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

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

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

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

"Sorry, guard----" he began.

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

He pulled out and consulted a large silver watch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER II

THE DANGER SIGNAL


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holcombe smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, sir," replied Holcombe.

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

"Done," replied the other.




CHAPTER III

THE OBER-LEUTNANT'S JAUNT


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His superior officer laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The ober-leutnant shrugged his shoulders.

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

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

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

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

The ober-leutnant nodded thoughtfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER IV

FOILED


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

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




CHAPTER V

THE PURSUIT


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And the dog?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER VI

VON LORINGHOVEN LEARNS NEWS


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Escorting duties?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

The waiter shook his head and winked solemnly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You bungled, then?"

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

"And the explosion?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The unter-leutnant gave the required information.

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER VII

BRUNO'S ESCAPADE


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In less than ten minutes Sefton returned.

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

He paused to note the effect of his words.

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

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

"Bitten him?"

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

"Then what has the dog done?"

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

"Did you hike him out?"

"Who--the padre or the dog?"

"Either--or both."

"Couldn't," was the exasperating reply.

"Why not, dash it all?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Eighteen knots, sir."

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

"Destroyers request permission to part company, sir."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER VIII

TORPEDOED


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, sir," replied the commander.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Half a crown!" offered the sub promptly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER IX

THE SKIPPER OF THE "GUIDING STAR"


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

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

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

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

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

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

The unter-leutnant regarded his superior with undisguised surprise.

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

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

"Gunfire, Herr Kapitan?"

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

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

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

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

"Fire!" ordered the ober-leutnant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where are your papers?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"To give us the British Admiralty sailing course."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER X

THE BLIMP TO THE RESCUE


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sir?"

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

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

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

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

"All ready?" asked the lieutenant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"All correct, sir," he reported.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Set to twenty fathoms!" he ordered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bon voyage, Fritz!" exclaimed Kirkwood.




CHAPTER XI

THE STRAFING OF U 254


"BOTH bow tubes--fire!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"None, Herr Kapitan," he replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"For how long?" added von Loringhoven.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XII

PRISONERS OF WAR


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

"Thanks," was Barcroft's laconic reply.

"Stand by and pick up the pieces."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Von Loringhoven was trembling like a leaf.

"I had forgotten him," he stammered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, sir."

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

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

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

The lieutenant-commander and the sub exchanged glances.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XIII

THE END OF THE "TANTALUS"


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Dead off," replied the lieutenant, laughing.

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

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

"Stream the buoy!"

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

"Let go No. 1 Bower!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And his second-in-command?"

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XIV

A CHANCE SHOT


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

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

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

Farrar shook his head.

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

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

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

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

"Where is Penkestle?" asked the sub.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hullo, Greenwood!" he exclaimed briskly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Rather," replied the sub with alacrity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You are very hospitable," remarked Entwistle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XV

LAID BY THE HEELS


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

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

Peter shook his head.

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

A look of relief flashed across Entwistle's features.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For some moments the two men smoked in silence.

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

The Secret Service man shook his head.

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

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

The Secret Service man snorted indignantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What has happened?" demanded Mr. Greenwood.

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

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

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

This done Entwistle drew the sub aside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Me?" exclaimed the sub incredulously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Single-handed?" inquired the sub.

"If necessary."

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

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

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

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

"Most makes," admitted the sub.

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

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

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

At length the two men came within sight of "The Old Croft," outside
the gate of which a throng of curious villagers still lingered,
while in the carriage drive a motor-car was standing--an indication
that the doctor from Trebalda had arrived.

Just as Entwistle and Farrar gained the door the medical man
appeared. "How is the patient, doctor," inquired Entwistle.

"Progressing favourably," was the reply.

"Fit to be moved?"

"The day after to-morrow."

"Not to-day?"

The doctor regarded his questioner curiously.

"Why this hurry?"

"I'm in charge of him," declared the Secret Service man.

"I happen to know Mr. Middlecrease as a resident of Trebalda,"
observed the medical man drily; "and I was not aware that he was in
any one's charge."

"Look here," exclaimed Entwistle, drawing the doctor aside. "You've
forced my hand, so to speak. This man, Middlecrease, is under arrest
as a noted German spy. Naturally I don't want the Greenwoods to know
anything about it at present; and still less do I want them to have
a Hun in their house, especially as he might take it into his head
to vanish during the night."

"Bless my soul, you surprise me!" ejaculated the doctor. "What do
you want me to do?"

"To order his removal to a nursing establishment in Trebalda,"
replied the Secret Service man. "I'll keep my eye on him there.
Also, I know I can rely upon your silence."

"Very good," was the reply. "I'll send a motor ambulance along
at--what time?"

"Say eight," rejoined Entwistle. "That will leave ample time for our
little adventure, Mr. Farrar."




CHAPTER XVI

THE STRUGGLE IN THE LONELY COTTAGE


"YOU'RE a bright sort of friend, Entwistle," was Peter's greeting.
"Pushing off with young Farrar and leaving me in solitary
contemplation of our host's library. Well, did you get any very
important information?"

Entwistle groaned in mock dismay.

"Another of them!" he exclaimed dismally. "Bless my soul, Barcroft,
have I to let you into the know, too?"

"You came a cropper once when you didn't take me into your
confidence----"

"Don't rub it in," protested the Secret Service man. "I'll cry
_peccavi_. But to return to our original subject. To be brief, young
Farrar knocked over my bird. The fellow he shot is von Gobendorff.
I've arranged for the man to be moved to Trebalda to-night.
Meanwhile--and this is where you come in handy, Peter--Farrar and I
are off to complete the coup, and I want you to cover our tracks."

The promise given, Entwistle's spirits rose, when at length, at
about four in the afternoon, he bade his host farewell, Barcroft
casually suggested that perhaps Farrar would like to walk part of
the way with him.

"I'd go myself," added Peter, "only this confounded ankle of
mine--an old injury, you know. Besides, Greenwood, we've got a lot
to talk about old times."

Farrar and his companion kept along the Trebalda road until they
were quite half a mile from the village of Penkestle, then making a
considerable detour, they found themselves on the open moor, and
roughly three miles N.W. of Broad Tor.

"Here's the spot," said Entwistle, unfolding a large-scale Ordnance
map, during a halt made in order to charge and light pipes. "The
cottage is shown--about fifty yards from the shaft of a disused
copper mine. Whether the two suspects are deliberate traitors to
their country, or whether they are unwillingly the tools of the
unscrupulous von Gobendorff, remains to be proved; but they are
tough characters, so we must be prepared for strong action."

Keeping to the low-lying ground as far as possible, the two men
stealthily approached the stone cottage, until it lay revealed at a
distance of about a hundred yards. That it was not deserted was
evident by a wreath of pale-grey smoke rising into the still air,
while tethered to a ring in its stonework was a small,
sturdily-built Cornish pony, with a pair of panniers slung across
its back.

"Looks like a flit, Farrar," remarked his companion. "I'll go first.
You remain here. If I whistle, one blast will mean that things are
progressing favourably, and you can help me round them up. Two
blasts mean that there is trouble, so don't forget to keep your
pistol handy."

Entwistle deliberately knocked out the ashes from his pipe and
placed it in a stout leather case.

"Don't want to have an old pal broken in the scrap," he observed, as
he put the case into an inner breast-pocket. "Well, _au revoir_."

Concealed behind a suitably situated clump of gorse Farrar watched
the retreating form of his late companion until the latter gained
the blank wall of the cottage, and then edged towards the window.

For some moments Entwistle listened, crouching under the sill of the
window, then he boldly tried the door. It was locked. The sound of a
peremptory knock wafted to the sub's ears. A little interval and the
door was thrown open, and the Secret Service man disappeared from
Farrar's view.

Five long-drawn minutes passed, but neither by sight nor sound did
Entwistle give indication of the progress of his efforts. The sub
was becoming anxious when two shrill blasts rent the air. Entwistle
was in difficulty and called for aid.

Pistol in hand, Farrar cleared the intervening stretch of rough
ground and dashed through the open doorway to his companion's
assistance.

In his impetuosity the sub forgot to exercise due caution. A stick
was thrust betwixt his legs, and, tripping, Farrar measured his
length upon the ground. Slightly dazed by his fall, the sub was
hiked up in the clutches of two burly men--a prisoner--and his
automatic weapon taken from him.

Vainly he attempted to break away, but an excruciating pain warned
him that his captors were applying a most efficacious arm-lock. To
struggle more would mean a broken limb.

"Are you sure that there are no more of these prying Englanders,
Schranz?" inquired one of the men, speaking in German.

The person addressed--he was the man who had bungled with the
signals on the occasion of the attempt to blow up Poldene
Bridge--went out, to return presently with the information that
everything appeared quiet.

"It is well," rejoined the leader of the gang. "Now to settle with
these meddlesome interlopers."

"It is easier said than done," remarked another.

The sub was taking stock of his surroundings. In a corner, and
protected to a certain extent by an overthrown table, stood
Entwistle, seemingly unperturbed at the danger that confronted him.
Instead of two suspects there were four powerfully built men to be
reckoned with.

"We'll wait till it's quite dark," resumed the last speaker, "and
then these Englanders will be able to test the depth of the shaft.
It is better than having recourse to pistol shots; and if their
bodies are ever found, well, it will be concluded that they have met
with a regrettable accident."

"Why wait?" grumbled Schranz. "Everything is clear outside. Every
moment is precious, if we are to get away with whole skins."

"All right," assented the leader. "Two of us will be sufficient to
keep the old one in order; you others can remove the young one.
Don't be long about it."

With pistols in their hands the two Huns detailed to guard Entwistle
covered their prisoner, while the others, seizing Farrar, began to
haul him out of the cottage, despite a strenuous resistance on the
part of the sub.

So fierce was the struggle that Entwistle's guards turned their
heads to watch the fracas. It was exactly what the Secret Service
man was waiting for. Without removing his right hand from his hip
pocket he fired two shots in rapid succession.

With a yell one of his captors leapt a couple of feet into the air
and fell in a huddled mass upon the earth floor.


{Illustration: "SEIZING FARRAR, BEGAN TO HAUL HIM OUT OF THE
COTTAGE." [_p._ 172.}


The other spun round, made a futile attempt to raise his pistol and
subsided heavily across the body of his companion.

Intent upon their particular task, Schranz and the fourth man had
not realised the turn of events before Entwistle, watching his
opportunity, placed a bullet through the former's right arm. Without
a great risk of hitting the sub, Entwistle could not fire at the
remaining miscreant.

Farrar was now quite equal to the occasion. Finding, although
unaccountably to him, that he was engaged against only one man he
let drive with a powerful left-hander. His fist struck the Hun
fairly and squarely on the chin, and the man dropped like a log.

"Rather warm while it lasted," remarked Entwistle nonchalantly.
"'Fraid I've spoilt a good pair of trousers. Any damage?"

"Not to me," replied Farrar. "By Jove! I made a most unholy bungle."

"And so did I," admitted his companion. "So you've nothing to brag
about. I was quite under the impression that there were only two of
the fellows here, and it gave me a bit of a shock to find four. It's
a handy trick, Farrar, to know how to use a pistol without removing
it from your hip pocket."

"You might as well extinguish the embers," remarked Farrar.

Entwistle clapped his hand to his smouldering garment.

"Thought I could sniff something burning," he said. "There are
advantages and disadvantages to most things, and a pistol fired from
one's pocket is no exception. Sorry I landed you in a bit of a
mess."

"Not at all," protested the sub. "You saved me from--well--a long
and decidedly unpleasant fall. What's the depth of a mine shaft?"

"Anything from two hundred to four hundred feet," was the reply. "As
a matter of fact I had no doubts on that score. I knew that one
against four was long odds, and reckoned on a division of work when
you were collared. It was then an easy matter to dispose of a couple
of the bounders, and that equalised things.... No, you don't, Fritz;
hands up and behave yourself!"

This was to the man Schranz, who was furtively eyeing the open door,
the while nursing his bullet-punctured arm. The fellow whom Farrar
had floored was still in a dazed condition, muttering incoherently.
Of the others, the leader of the gang was stone dead, Entwistle's
shot having penetrated the brain; the other was fast shuffling off
this mortal coil.

Deftly the sub dressed the arm of his late antagonist, for the
small-calibre bullet had ripped an artery.

"Now what's to be done?" he inquired.

"Go without dinner, I'm afraid," replied Entwistle. He glanced at
his watch.

"In another thirty-five minutes," he announced, "we will hand over
our prisoners to the local police. I took the precaution this
afternoon of telephoning to the superintendent at Trebalda. The
cottage will be locked up and seals attached to the doors. To-morrow
I can investigate its contents at my leisure. Now, our immediate
business completed, I think we'll have a pipe--try this tobacco."




CHAPTER XVII

THE BURNING MUNITION SHIP


"How about a few hours ashore?" asked Sub-Lieutenant Farrar.
"There's a boat at seven bells, I hear."

"Only too delighted," replied Eric Greenwood. "It looks an
interesting old show."

Five weeks had elapsed since the events recorded in the previous
chapter. The two chums, appointed to the "Zenodorus," were
proceeding to Malta on a transport for the purpose of joining their
new ship. Owing to the intricate route taken by the "Timon," the
transport conveying eight hundred troops to Salonika, fifteen days
had elapsed since the two young officers sailed from Plymouth, and
at the present rate of progress the "Timon" might, with luck, drop
anchor in the Grand Harbour at Valletta in about another five days'
time.

At present she was lying off Arezzo, a seaport on the Italian coast
between Genoa and Naples, occupying a mooring close to the
well-guarded entrance to the natural harbour. At another buoy a
cable's length astern (the transport was lying head to wind in the
tideless waters) was a large grey-hulled merchantman flying the
Italian flag. Alongside one of the wharfs were two submarines
displaying the red, white, and green ensign of Italy, and another
with the tricolour of France. A Greek dispatch boat and half a dozen
patrol craft completed the number of Allied vessels in the harbour
of Arezzo.

"A whacking lump of a boat," remarked the A.P., indicating the
merchantman. "Wonder why she's here? I should think there's hardly
enough water for a vessel of her draught."

"She's the 'Giuseppe,' I understand," replied Farrar. "Chock-a-block
with American-manufactured munitions for the Italian front. Water?
She's in eleven fathoms at the very least. Hullo, ready? The
steam-boat's alongside."

In the company of about a dozen naval and military officers the two
chums descended the accommodation-ladder and entered the waiting
boat, their departure being followed by the envious glances of
hundreds of Tommies, to whom the opportunity of setting foot on
Italian soil was denied.

"Not much of a show," commented Greenwood after the two officers had
explored the narrow street that formed the principal thoroughfare of
the town of Arezzo. "The place looks jolly picturesque at a
distance, but on a closer acquaintance one's enthusiasm is apt to
fall flat."

"I vote we get some grub before we go on board," suggested Farrar.
"By Jove, look at those oranges! And the price! After paying
fivepence each for them in England a dozen for a copper coin
corresponding to our penny does seem a bit cheap."

"Not being able to export them, I suppose they have to practically
give them away," remarked the A.P. "On the other hand, look at the
price of coal here. I've been working it out: it's something like
£13 a ton."

"There's one thing," rejoined the sub, speaking somewhat at random,
"it's too jolly hot here for coal to be in great demand. Here,
before we get anything to eat let's have a look at the railway
station. I always had a weakness for watching trains."

A troop train was drawn up alongside the low platform. Hundreds of
reservists from Campania and Calabria were being hurried northward
to the Venetian plains--slim olive-feature men, short of stature,
yet looking full of enthusiasm. Catching sight of two British naval
officer the soldiers opened a wordy fire to the accompaniment of
fantastic gestures.

"Perhaps it is as well that we don't understand Italian," laughed
the A.P., as the train, the carriages of which being of the most
modern trans-continental type, moved out of the station, while
almost immediately behind another train that had been waiting at a
siding drew up.

There was no mistaking the nationality of the occupants of the
dingy, grimy carriages. At every window appeared cheerful,
sun-tanned faces.

From one of the _wagons-à-lit_ descended three or four officers,
looking begrimed, unshorn, and dog-tired, but nevertheless full of
buoyant spirits.

"Hullo!" facetiously exclaimed one, addressing Farrar and his
companion. "This looks better. Don't say we have arrived at Calais
at last?"

"A few miles farther," replied the sub.

"And an hour's stop at every hundred yards--almost," rejoined the
military man. "Arezzo, eh? Five hundred miles from Taranto, an'
we've only taken three days an' three nights--bless 'em! Yes, we're
from the Salonika front. First leave for eighteen blank months.
Every ten miles the train stops. The engine's running on wood fuel,
and so we have to set all hands to work and cut down timber."

"And not a chance of a bath," chimed in another. "The brigands on
the engine rush you half a lire for hot water for shaving, so I'm
growing a beard. Wish I'd taken the chance to go home by boat. I'd
jump at it now--U-boats and other side-shows included."

"Cheer up, Shortie!" exclaimed another. "Bear your burden like a
proper foot-slogging subaltern. You're going home. All aboard, you
fellows; Old Paulo is going to take us another mile on our long trek
to Blighty."

The guard hurried along the platform, gesticulating violently. The
tired but indomitable Tommies suffered themselves to be returned to
their comfortless carriages, and with a succession of labouring
grunts and jolts the leave-train steamed out of the station.

Half an hour later, as Farrar and the A.P. were making for the quay,
they became aware of a babel of voices coming from the direction of
the harbour. Presently wildly excited men, women, and children began
to stream in the direction of the two officers, until the usually
sleepy street was packed with a mob of Italians, who bore every sign
of being in a state of complete panic.

"What's the commotion, I wonder?" remarked Greenwood. "Austrian
aircraft, or has a U-boat barged into the harbour?"

"Something fairly exciting. Let's hurry, old bird."

Hurrying was no easy matter, owing to the press. Several times
excited individuals grasped the officers' arms, and by words and
signs indicated that they should avoid some unknown danger. It was
not until the British officers gained the end of the Strada Marina,
and came within view of the harbour, that the nature of the peril
became apparent.

The munitions ship "Giuseppe" was ablaze from stem to stern. The
flames had secured a firm hold upon the boat and spar decks, but,
for some unexplained reason the fire had not yet eaten its way
downwards, where thousands of tons of explosives were stored.

With the results of the fearful catastrophe at Halifax fresh in
their minds, the inhabitants of Arezzo were flying from the town in
the hope of being able to put a safe distance between them and the
source of the impending explosion. The Italian senior naval officer
had behaved with coolness and promptitude, hoisting a peremptory
signal for all shipping to leave the port and steam seawards.

Already the "Timon," the patrol boats, and destroyer, and most of
the merchantmen, had obeyed the order, while the Italian submarines
were hurrying towards the open sea in order to submerge until the
danger was over.

So rapidly had the flames spread that the "Giuseppe's" boats were on
fire before they could be lowered. Already several of the falls had
been burnt through, and the boats had fallen, still blazing, into
the water. Right aft, and frequently obscured from view by the thick
clouds of smoke, were about twenty of the crew of the munitions
ship, either unable to swim or else too dazed to make the attempt.

Farrar glanced at his chum and pointed to the burning vessel.

"Shall us?" he inquired.

"Let's," replied the A.P. promptly.

Both men realised the nature of the impending danger, but the
thought of being able to make an attempt to save life banished all
sense of self-preservation. In cold blood they might have thought
twice before lingering in the vicinity of a floating cargo of
explosives that might be detonated at any moment. It was the British
seaman's instinct to "butt in and do a bit" that supplied the
stimulus to their formidable task.

Lying along the quay were dozens of boats--long "double-enders,"
with high prows and stern-posts after the manner of Mediterranean
craft. In almost every one were oars, for in their hasty flight the
boatmen had given no thought for their property, although now,
doubtless, they were bemoaning the anticipated destruction of their
means of livelihood.

Selecting a long carvel-built boat the two officers cast off painter
and stern-fast, and seizing the oars pulled in the direction of the
"Giuseppe." It was a slow business propelling a strange craft, for
each of the oars worked on a single thole-pin, which was so placed
as to allow the rowers to stand and face the bows and push rather
than pull the long oars.

The air was heavy with pungent fumes. Clouds of black smoke eddied
incessantly over and around the boat, obscuring the burning ship
from the two young officers' view. The heat was terrific, while the
crackle and roar of the flames dominated all other sounds.

"Way 'nough!" shouted Farrar, as the towering stern of the
"Giuseppe" loomed through the smoke. "Jump for it, men."

Although unable to understand English, the survivors of the crew
grasped the significance of the sub's words. Half a dozen leapt,
retaining sufficient presence of mind to jump into the water and not
directly into the boat. These soon clambered over the sheering
gunwales, and in their terror made a frantic dash for the oars to
back the little craft away from the burning ship.

"Avast there!" ordered the sub peremptorily; but it was not until he
had planted a truculent Italian a blow on the chest that his command
was obeyed, the men cringing and whimpering as they huddled on the
bottom-boards.

Others of the "Giuseppe's" crew descended by means of ropes, until
the little craft was dangerously overcrowded.

"Enough for one trip, Slogger?" inquired the A.P.

Farrar shook his head.

"No time," he decided promptly. "The others can keep overboard and
hang on to the gunwales. We'll double-bank the oars and push her
along."

With difficulty restraining the remaining rescued members of the
"Giuseppe's" crew from clambering into the now deeply laden boat,
the two British officers re-shipped the oars. Aided by several of
the less panicky Italians, they rowed the sluggish craft shorewards,
her progress greatly impeded by the drag of the men alongside.

The immediate work of rescue completed, the sub began to awake to
the grave possibilities of the position. Considering the immense
volume of fire it was little short of miraculous that the "Giuseppe"
had not already been blown sky-high. Her crew might reach the shore
in safety, but the chances of escaping beyond the danger-zone were
very remote.

Even as Farrar watched the burning ship, the while straining
desperately at the heavy oars, the enveloping pall of smoke was rent
by a vivid flash. An ear-splitting detonation followed, while the
hitherto calm water of the harbour was lashed with furious waves.

Panic seized upon the "Giuseppe's" crew with redoubled violence.
Throwing caution to the winds they dipped the boat's gunwale. A
short, crested wave breaking inboard completed the catastrophe, and
the next instant the two British officers found themselves "in the
ditch" in the midst of a struggling mob of Italian seamen.

Several of the latter could swim, and quickly struck out for the
quay, which was now less than fifty yards away. Others grasped the
keel of the upturned boat, while the rest clutched their comrades in
distress with a vehemence that led to a series of frantic combats in
the water.

"Fine old lash-up," soliloquised the sub as he struck out in order
to avoid the embraces of a partly water-logged Genoese. "How comes
it that we are still alive?"

Somehow it did not seem quite in accordance with the accepted
theories that such an immense bulk of explosive had not exterminated
every living thing within a couple of miles' radius.

"Hullo, Slogger!" shouted Greenwood, treading water on the outskirts
of the crowd of immersed Italians. "Who's for the shore? I for one."

Just then, a boat manned by four men swept round one of the
projecting heads of the jetties. Its crew consisted of the British
military officers who had gone ashore from the "Timon." Scorning to
take to their heels the officers had gone down to the quay to see
what had become of the transport, and noticing Farrar and the A.P.
putting off to rescue they had at once set to work to follow their
example. It was only a lack of skilled boatmanship that prevented
them acting in company with their naval confrères; as it was, they
were just in time to "put the finishing touches" to the work of
rescue.

Safely in the boat the sub directed his attention to the "Giuseppe."
She had sunk to the bottom of the harbour, her funnels, stumpy
derrick-masts, and a portion of her charred upper-works still
showing above the surface.

Two cables' lengths away lay the French submarine, with a kedge
anchor laid out on each side of the bows and a long grass warp from
her stern to a bollard on the head of one of the jetties.

It was the ready mind of the _lieutenant de vaisseau_ that had saved
the situation. The submarine, with her propellers disabled by the
result of an encounter with a U-boat off the Corsican coast, had put
into Arezzo for repairs. When the "Giuseppe" took fire the submarine
found herself in a helpless position, being unable to accompany the
rest of the vessels to sea.

The French officer might have ordered his men to seek safety in
flight, but in that case his craft was doomed to destruction. Up
against a tight proposition he acted with the resource and good
judgment of a worthy son of France. Ordering two anchors to be laid
out well in the direction of the burning ship he kedged the
submarine out of the basin until her bow tubes could be brought to
bear upon the "Giuseppe." By firing a torpedo at the burning ship he
ran a chance of precipitating the end should the force of the
explosion be communicated to the dangerous cargo.

It was once more a case of fortune favouring the bold. The torpedo
did its work effectively, without detonating the munitions on board
the "Giuseppe." In less than ten minutes the inrush of water through
the huge rent in the ship's side caused her to founder, and further
danger was at an end.

The military officers insisted upon taking Farrar and the A.P. to an
hotel to obtain the loan of some clothes while their own could be
dried. The place was deserted, like almost every other building in
Arezzo, but the British visitors were not to be denied. Great was
the astonishment of the "padrone" when, on his return, he found the
hotel in the possession of a group of English officers, two of whom
were rigged out in garments that he recognised as his own.

"The 'Timon' is returning," announced a major of artillery. "Come
along, boys; let's settle up and foot it."

The host, with many expressions of regret at the departure of his
guests, bade them farewell.

"Ze Inglis papairs 'ave arrive," he vociferated. "All ze war-news
an' big police news. Me sell copy--only one lira."

"Evidently Old Umberto imagines the latter item is an irresistible
bait," remarked the A.P. as he unfolded a five days' old copy of a
London evening journal. "Anything startling, I wonder?"

"Nothing much," replied Farrar, who was already glancing down the
columns. "Usual tosh. One minister makes a flamboyant speech; his
colleague utters a jeremiad that would make an outsider imagine that
everything was lost. Some very pertinent questions asked in the
House on naval matters, by Jove! Hullo, what's this? 'German
Prisoners Escape:--On Monday evening four German naval officers
succeeded in escaping from Stresdale Camp, and up to the time of
going to press they are still at liberty. The names and descriptions
of the escaped prisoners are: Otto von Loringhoven, aged 32, speaks
English fluently.' What do you think of that?"

"They won't get far," declared Greenwood optimistically. "We'll read
in a day or two that they've been collared."

"Let's hope so," added the sub.




CHAPTER XVIII

THE FUGITIVE


AT two o'clock on a bleak morning four men sat upon the trunk of a
fallen tree in the deep recesses of Tongby Woods. Rain was
descending in torrents, accompanied by a howling gale. The tree-tops
bent and groaned, and, although close to the ground the numerous
trunks formed a barrier to the furious wind, there was little
protection from the downpour, as the saturated state of the men's
clothes gave evidence to their respective wearers.

"We are now ten miles from Stresdale Camp," remarked one, speaking
in German. "Now we must separate."

"No, no, Otto," protested another. "Let us keep together. Without
you we are as good as lost."

Von Loringhoven shrugged his shoulders, cursing under his breath as
the movement resulted in a rivulet of rain-water trickling down his
neck.

"And with you I am as good as lost," he muttered _sotto voce_. "No,
Hans; a bargain is a bargain. Have I not arranged everything for you
three? You have civilian clothes, English money, food, maps, and
each an address of a good German who will give you shelter and
provide for your safety. It stands to reason that four men will
arouse suspicion. Singly they have excellent chances."

"That is so," agreed a third. "Only it so happens that we cannot
speak English so well as you, Otto. But we must trust to luck. When
I broke out of Heavyshaw Camp, eleven months ago, I covered nearly
two hundred kilometres before they took me. Then it was my own
fault. I ought not to have made for the East Coast."

"You will be quite safe when you arrive at Manchester," declared von
Loringhoven. "A large city is a splendid hiding-place. Müller makes
for London, _hein_? Don't get blown to bits by a Gotha, Müller; that
would be a cruel fate for a good German flying-officer. Koenig, you
are making for Bradford: another excellent town to escape
observation. And, Hans, you are for Leeds. These English know we are
homing birds, and conclude that we have gone east, but for the
present our course lies west."

"And you, Otto?" inquired Müller. "What are your plans?"

"I make for Liverpool," replied von Loringhoven. "A tried and
trusted friend of mine lives at Bootle, which is a suburb. I will
give you the address. After a fortnight you can write to me
there, under the name of Smith. The address is easy to remember, so
do not commit it to paper. Meanwhile I will make arrangements for
the four of us to get across to Ireland. Rest easy; within a month
we will be in the Fatherland once more."

"Cannot we keep together till dawn?" inquired the nervous Hans.

"No; we separate," replied von Loringhoven in a tone that brooked no
denial. "Now remember, Müller: if you should be spoken to, shake
your head and point to your ear. You remember the English sentence I
taught you?"

"'Sorry, mate; I'm deaf,'" replied Müller with parrot-like fidelity.

"That is quite passable English," said the kapitan-leutnant
approvingly. "It will be an efficient passport. Now, comrades, I
will leave you."

Solemnly shaking hands with his stolid and rain-soaked compatriots,
von Loringhoven set off on his solitary bid for freedom.

Before he left the shelter of the wood he stopped and drew a small
packet from the inside of one of his socks. From it he produced a
folded paper, which he carefully placed in the breast-pocket of his
jacket, a silver badge--the emblem of an honourably discharged
British soldier--and two gold stripes which he deftly sewed to the
sleeve of his overcoat.

"It is as well not to take others into your confidence," he
soliloquised grimly. "So now for Birmingham, Gloucester, and
Bristol."

The mention of Liverpool was a "blind" on his part. Von
Loringhoven's consummate trust in himself was sure to go a long way
towards his attempt to get clear of the country; but he had little
or no faith in his brother-officer prisoners. Unintentionally,
perhaps, they would have betrayed his plans had he given them
genuine information as to the direction in which he intended to go.

Following a lane, von Loringhoven at length emerged into a broad
highway running in a south-westerly direction. He followed it
boldly. There was little chance of meeting any one on that inclement
night, while the absence of the four Huns was not likely to be
discovered until the morning roll-call. He had thus five hours
before the prisoners' escape was noticed--and much might be done in
that time.

Several villages, all shrouded in utter darkness, he walked through
without meeting a single living creature; small towns he skirted,
deeming it unwise to be seen by a policeman on his nocturnal beat.

The first blush of dawn found him within sight of an isolated farm
close to the side of the road. The house stood at some distance
back, but a walled-in yard, with two ranges of out-buildings,
suggested possibilities of a few hours' rest. The storm was on the
point of clearing, although a rosy tint in the eastern sky betokened
a recurrence of the rain.

Without alarming any dogs or poultry the fugitive scaled the wall.
On his right was a barn, the door being secured merely by a hasp and
pin. Inside, the place was almost filled with trusses of hay and
piles of oil-cake. Overhead was a loft, which would furnish suitable
accommodation for the fatigued man.

Von Loringhoven meant to take no undue risks. He ascended the loft,
to find that there was plenty of loose hay. In the gable end
overlooking the road was a door bolted on the inside. By slipping
back the bolt and leaving the door ajar he could command a fairly
comprehensive survey of the road, while if occasion necessitated he
could drop down outside the farmhouse without running the danger of
having to scale the outside wall. As an additional precaution he
drew the ladder up into the loft, thus preventing any one from
gaining his place of concealment until another ladder could be
procured.

Hardly had von Loringhoven made these preparations when on taking a
cautious survey of the road he noticed a cyclist approaching from
the direction he himself had come, The man was frequently peering to
right and left, while occasionally he would glance behind, as if
expecting somebody.

"It is to be hoped that the camp authorities are not on our track
already," soliloquised the fugitive, a wave of apprehension sweeping
across his mind. It was extremely disconcerting to know that he was
being pursued before he was twenty miles from Stresdale Prison
Laager.

Through a minute chink between the slightly open door of the loft
and the jamb von Loringhoven watched the approaching cyclist with
the greatest attention. He became aware that the man's face wore a
furtive look, as if he, too, was apprehensive of trouble, In spite
of the inclement morning he wore no overcoat, his tweed jacket was
buttoned up to his neck, his hands were unprotected by gloves.
Across the handlebar of the bicycle was a folded sack secured by two
pieces of string, while fastened to a carrier over the driving-wheel
was a small basket.

Von Loringhoven scrutinised the man's features intently, in case the
cyclist were a fellow-prisoner who had contrived to escape; but he
failed to recognise him as a compatriot.

The Hun's fears returned when the cyclist dismounted almost
immediately underneath the gable-end of the loft, and propped the
machine against the wall.

Giving another glance up and down the road and across the fields on
the other side of the highway, the man unfastened the sack from the
handle-bars and, keeping close to the wall, passed out of von
Loringhoven's sight.

The ober-leutnant abandoned his now useless observation post and
tiptoed to a dormer window commanding a view of the farm-yard.
Before he had waited thirty seconds, his newly formed surmises were
confirmed by the appearance of the man's head and shoulders above
the wall.

Satisfying himself that, as far as he knew, he was unobserved the
man clambered astride the wall and dropped lightly upon a heap of
rubbish that lay conveniently placed in a corner of the yard. Then,
moving quickly and silently, he made his way to what was evidently a
poultry-house, For a little while he fumbled with the lock, using a
skeleton key. His efforts in that direction successful, he passed
from the Hun's view.

"Ho! ho!" chuckled von Loringhoven softly. "So that is the
Englishman's game? Robbing a farmer's fowl-house. It remains for a
good German to turn the tables on the thief."

Retracing his way to the door the fugitive Hun threw it open. The
road was quite deserted. Noiselessly, yet unhesitatingly, von
Loringhoven dropped to the ground and made his way to the cycle, The
next minute he was pedalling rapidly down the incline, thanking his
good fortune for the gift of a speedy means of locomotion.

The bicycle was a sound one, for on dismounting von Loringhoven
found that the tyres were in excellent condition and the chain
almost new, while the bearings gave no indications of undue
"play." Unstrapping the basket from the carrier and finding that it
was empty, he hurled the somewhat distinctive appendage over a
hedge.

Remounting, von Loringhoven rode hard for nearly two hours, until
muscular cramp warned him that he was very much out of practice.

He was now within a mile of a large town. Already there were signs
of activity in the manufacturing district. Men with food tied up in
red handkerchiefs, or carried in wicket baskets, were trooping to
work, but to the Hun's intense satisfaction his presence called for
no suspicious comments on the part of the passers-by.

"Not much time to be lost," decided the ober-leutnant. "They are now
calling the roll-call at Stresdale, and I am still within fifty
miles of that hideous spot."

Taking advantage of a lull in the traffic von Loringhoven deftly
loosened the valve of the back tyre, The tyre deflated, he tightened
the nut again, and resumed his trudge towards the town.

"Hard luck, mate," was the greeting from a sympathetic Tommy,
apparently on leave from the front. "Puncture, eh? Got far to go?"

"Only a matter of five miles," replied the mendacious Hun.

"I'll give you a hand at repairing it," offered the soldier. "I used
to be in the cycle trade before I was called up."

"No, thanks," replied von Loringhoven. "The tyre's rotten. It will
only puncture again before I could ride a few hundred yards. I'll
get a train home."

"So you've done your bit, chum," continued the Tommy, pointing to
the gold stripe on von Loringhoven's coat. "What's your regiment?"

The German had already noted the letters on the shoulder strap of
his questioner. He belonged to a Lincolnshire battalion.

"The North Devons, Second Battalion," replied von Loringhoven
promptly, trusting that the information would satisfy the man.

"Blimy, that so?" persisted the Tommy. "Then your crush relieved us
at Armentières. D'ye happen to know---- Hullo, mate, what's up now?"

"Touch of the old trouble," replied von Loringhoven, imitating an
asthmatic wheeze to perfection. "Sooner I get home the better.
S'long, chum."

Arriving at the railway station the ober-leutnant found that he had
twenty minutes to wait. When the booking-office opened he took a
ticket for himself and one for the machine to Birmingham, the
supposedly punctured wheel supplying a plausible explanation that an
active man with the wind behind him should elect to go by train
rather than by road. His thoroughness in purchasing an address label
to affix to the machine showed that he was quite up to the
requirements of the Railway Company.

He had gone into the question of the retention of the cycle, and had
decided that it was quite safe to do so. The poultry thief would not
dare to report his loss. On the other hand, he would be too
panic-stricken to take any steps to recover it. Here again luck was
with the crafty Hun, for, save in circumstances like the present, a
bicycle could not be stolen without the fact being telegraphed far
and wide within an hour of the discovery of the loss.

It was nearly noon when the fugitive alighted at Birmingham. In that
vast city he was comparatively free from danger, especially as he
had so carefully covered his tracks. Ordering a meal at a restaurant
von Loringhoven ate at his ease, scanning the columns of a midday
paper to ascertain whether there was any news of the escape from
Stresdale. There was none; apparently the authorities had not
thought fit to take the Press into their confidence.

Leaving his cycle in a lock-up, the ober-leutnant spent the
afternoon in wandering about the streets until four o'clock. He had
no intention of going farther that night; Birmingham as a refuge
suited him admirably.

While having tea he bought an early evening edition of a paper. In
it he found a small paragraph briefly reporting that four German
naval officers had broken out of Stresdale Camp, but neither names
nor descriptions were given.

The meal over, von Loringhoven claimed his cycle and walked to the
south-western suburbs, engaging a bed at a modest hotel in Selly
Oak. If questioned he had decided to tell a plausible tale that he
was on his way to take up a job on a farm near Hereford, but to his
satisfaction he was merely asked to perform the perfunctory task of
filling in a registration form, the particulars on which were
received without comment.

The fugitive spent the evening in the commercial room in the company
of three "knights of the road." He was too dead beat to go out,
while he could not retire to bed so early without the risk of
causing undue attention.

Presently the boots brought in a late special, which one of the
commercials promptly appropriated.

"I see they've collared three of those Huns who broke out of
Stresdale," he remarked suddenly.

Von Loringhoven pricked up his ears, but maintained silence.

"That's good news," rejoined another commercial. "Any details?"

"Only a few," was the answer. "An interview with a special constable
who arrested one of them reads rather funny. He challenged a
suspicious-looking character, who replied, 'Morry, sate, I deaf am,'
which gave the special sufficient justification for arresting the
man."

"Just the foolish thing Müller would do," mused von Loringhoven.
"And after all the pains I took to knock the simple phrase into his
thick Bavarian skull. I should not wonder if he's tried his level
best to give me away--unthinkingly, of course."

"And the fourth?" inquired one of the company.

"A U-boat pirate, Otto von Loringhoven by name," announced the
possessor of the newspaper. "He speaks English fluently. Here's his
description."

"It might apply to any of us," remarked another. "Fancy you, Wilson,
being run in just as you were fixing up an order with the Parabola
Company."

The eyes of the speaker roamed from one to another until they were
fixed upon the uncomfortable Hun. The others followed the gaze of
their brother-commercial. The ober-leutnant found the mental strain
intolerable. He felt compelled to break the silence.

"And would you be astonished to learn, gentlemen," he exclaimed,
"that you are in the presence of Otto von Loringhoven?"




CHAPTER XIX

BILLY'S FLYING-BOAT


"BY all the powers, Slogger! You here?"

Farrar "brought up all standing," face to face with one of the last
persons he expected to encounter at Malta. He was on his way up the
Strada Reale in Valetta when the cheery hail greeted him.

"Cheer-o, Holcombe!" he replied. "This is great--absolutely. What's
doing?"

"Brought the 'Antipas' into the Grand Harbour yesterday morning,"
explained Hugh. "We left a week ago under sealed orders, and have
been pelting along at twenty-five knots practically ever since,
except for a short stop at Gib. Something's in the wind, Slogger,
you mark my words, or they wouldn't send seven modern destroyers up
the Straits."

"Pity Greenwood and I weren't given a passage in her," remarked
Farrar. "It would have saved a rotten run in one of the slowest old
tubs it was ever my luck to sail in--the 'Timon'; know her?"

Holcombe shook his head. "What's your packet?" he inquired.

"The 'Zenodorus.'"

"Lucky blighter!" declared Holcombe. "You have a jolly decent
skipper. Aubyn's his name, isn't it?"

"Yes," agreed the R.N.V.R. sub. "From all accounts he's hot stuff. I
haven't seen much of him yet. We only joined the ship late last
night."

"Where's Bruno?" was Holcombe's next question.

"Left him behind at Penkestle. Greenwood's governor is taking care
of him. Didn't seem to like the idea at first. Thought Bruno would
be too much of a handful, but before I left he was quite pally with
the dog. I should be surprised if he wants to part with him. You
see, there was no accommodation on the 'Timon,' so Bruno and I had
to 'split brass rags.'"

"It's little use crying over spilt milk, Slogger," continued his
chum. "Had I known that you were here and that we were under orders
for Malta I could easily have given Bruno a passage. But I'll tell
you what I'll do: the storeship 'Gunnybag' is leaving Devonport in
about a fortnight. I'll write to young Jolly, who's a pal of mine,
and ask him to bring the dog out--that is, if you want him?"

"Thanks, rather," replied Farrar warmly.

"Come along to the Naval Club," suggested Holcombe, and the two
chums made their way towards the rendezvous of the members of the
Senior Service in Valetta.

"Do you know that chap?" asked the R.N. sub, indicating a tall,
supple-framed, deeply tanned officer in the uniform of a
flight-lieutenant, who was replacing a cue after the victorious
termination of a "hundred up" with a tubby, round-faced
engineer-lieutenant.

"Can't say I do," replied Farrar.

"Come along, then, old bird," exclaimed Holcombe, grasping his
friend's arm. "I say, Barcroft, let me introduce my pal Farrar."

The two men shook hands.

"Seen you from a distance," remarked Farrar. "When you strafed the
Hun that strafed us. I was on the old 'Tantalus.'"

A smile swept across Billy Barcroft's face.

"That so?" he queried. "The U-boat's rash persistence gave me a fine
chance. So you are the Farrar my gov'nor mentioned in his last
letters?"

"He was stopping in the same house--with Greenwood's people,"
explained the R.N.V.R. sub. "Yes, he looked absolutely top-hole.
Grumbled a bit, though, because you didn't say anything in your
letter about strafing U 254."

"I see they've let von Loringhoven slip through their fingers,"
commented Billy. "Wonder if he's been collared yet?"

"Not according to latest reports from home," said Holcombe. "It's a
rummy world," he added, breaking off on a fresh tack. "Yesterday
evening I ran full tilt into you, Barcroft, and now I've just barged
into this child."

"Did you bring Blimp 144A out here?" asked Farrar.

Barcroft made a deprecatory gesture with his hands.

"I'm dead off blimping," he explained. "It's not bad sport, but,
somehow, there's something lacking. S'pose it's the knowledge that
you're held aloft by a gas-bag. If anything goes wrong you can't
'plane down,' you know. Your only chance is to jump mighty quick,
and parachutes have a knack of letting you down in more senses than
one. I saw a Hun crash.... his 'chute refused to open. It wasn't a
pretty sight."

"So what are you doing now?" inquired Farrar.

"Oh, now? Just yarning," replied Billy, his ivory teeth gleaming as
he smiled.

"Quite so," agreed the R.N.V.R. sub. "So please carry on. You are
still in the Air Service?"

"Rather," declared Barcroft emphatically. "Yes, I felt a bit fed up
with the old Blimp, so I got a pal of mine up-topsides to put in a
word for me. Result: I've been given a brand-new flying-boat. Had to
bring her right across France without a stop, and then on here from
Marseilles. Yes, with luck things ought to hum in the Mediterranean.
Fritz has been having too easy a time recently--and our patrol boats
haven't been idle."

"Lucky dog!" exclaimed Holcombe. "She must be a craft to be proud
of."

"Like to have a look at her?" continued Billy. "She's lying off
Floriana."

He glanced at his watch.

"One o'clock," he announced. "There's a steamboat from the Customs
Landing at two. You'll be able to do the honours to my little
packet, and I'll put you alongside your respective ships by eight
bells."

About half way to the landing-place the three officers found that
their progress through the already crowded street was impeded by a
mob of Maltese--the men in sombre garments that contrasted with the
motley attire usually sported by the natives; the women in black,
with the characteristic head-dress that somewhat resembled the
Spanish mantilla. Surging up the steps of the steep strada the
"Malts" were importuning every one they met, holding out metal cups
for the expected reception of coins.

"What's the move, I wonder?" remarked Holcombe, as the two friends
stood aside to let the throng sway past.

"Dunno," replied Barcroft. "It reminds me of Barborough Wakes."

"I can tell you," said a civilian, a dockyard official, who had
overheard Holcombe's query. "Do your remember that case of Angelo
Zurrico? No; you have not been long in Malta? Zurrico shot another
Maltese--sort of vendetta business. He was taken red-handed and
sentenced to death. His friends, unable to save his life by
obtaining a reprieve, are doing the next best thing according to
their lights. They are collecting money to pay for masses and a new
silk rope."

"Eh?" ejaculated Billy incredulously.

"Fact," continued his informant. "Custom of Malta, you know. Every
condemned criminal is provided with a silk halter if his pals can
raise the wind. Also, another quaint idea, the fellow selected to do
the hangman's job is at once put under arrest--partly for his own
protection in case the relatives of the about-to-be executed man
should take it into their heads to knife him, and also to prevent
him running away. But to see the Malts at their best I'd advise you
to be here for Carnival, if you are able."

The officers thanked their informant, and, the crowd having passed
by, resumed their interrupted walk. At the Custom House steps a
launch attached to the seaplane base was in attendance, and the run
up the Grand Harbour began.

"There she is!" exclaimed Barcroft proudly, pointing to a dark-grey
object lying on the surface of the water of a sheltered creek.

At first sight Farrar saw what appeared to be an exaggerated tadpole
floating on the water. The flying-boat was at least eighty feet in
length, with a blunt, rounded bow and a bulging body for'ard,
gradually tapering to a narrow, slightly up-turned stern. Being
broadside on the immense wing-spread of her triplanes was hardly
noticeable until the launch drew nearer.

"Come aboard," was Billy's invitation, "only please mind your
beetle-crushers. I don't want my mahogany planking scratched."

The flying-boat, on the bows of which was painted the name
"Avenger," was the triumph of expert brains and painstaking
workmanship. The hull was built of double-skinned mahogany with a
layer of oiled silk between the outer diagonal and inner fore and
aft planks, the skin being securely fastened to elm timbers and
ribs. Underneath, although for the present invisible, were six
hydroplane steps to facilitate the boat's ascent when "taking off"
from the surface.

Wide waterways formed the deck, the sheer being broken by the raised
gun platform for'ard, and, immediately in its wake, the conning
tower and navigation cabin; 'midships the motor-room and petrol
tanks, aft stores and provisions. Four light but powerful guns of
the Cleland Davis 5-in. non-recoil type, aerial torpedo dropping
gear, and a pair of searchlights comprised the attacking and
defensive armament.

Lightness compatible with strength was everywhere evident, yet the
tremendous bulk that had to be raised by the joint action of the
planes and the four propellers, actuated by ten motors each of 200
h.p., was not far short of fifty tons. While water-borne the
flying-boat was propelled by a single propeller coupled to a 160 h.p.
petrol motor.

"What's her crew--how many?" inquire Farrar.

"Eighteen all told," replied Barcroft. "We work in watches.
Kirkwood, my flight-sub, takes the port watch. He's gone down to
Bighi this afternoon to look up an old pal, Waynsford by name, who
is convalescing after a touch of Maltese fever."

"By Jove!" exclaimed Farrar enthusiastically; "she is a ripper. I
like that idea of a fore-and-aft canopy. Wish I had a chance of
taking on this sort of job."

"You never know your luck," answered Billy. "For the present,
however, I suppose you must make the best of things on the
'Zenodorus.' If you have a chance give my regards to your skipper.
He's an old chum of mine, I must look him up at the first
opportunity."

"Why not this afternoon?" asked Holcombe, "You are going back with
us in the launch?"

"Unfortunately, no," replied Barcroft. "I'll send you back, but I
cannot get away after six bells. We're giving a display for the
edification of the Commander-in-Chief and his staff. Meanwhile,
let's go across to the mess; you fellows must be wanting lunch--I
do."




CHAPTER XX

RAMMED


"SAIL one point on the port bow."

The hail, coming from the look out for'ard, made Farrar hasten to
the weather side of the navigation-bridge and bring his
night-glasses to the eyes.

The "Zenodorus" was steaming at twenty-one knots with all lights
screened. Her position was roughly forty miles N.E. by E. of Cape
Sta Maria di Leuca, her mission being to act as covering screen to a
drifter patrol operating in the Straits of Otranto.

Five miles to the nor'ard of her course were the hardy little
drifters, their crews--one-time hard-working, peaceable North Sea
fishermen--forming an effective unit of the British Navy in the
hazardous task of assisting in the blockade of the Austrian fleet in
the Adriatic. The erstwhile fishing-boats had been on this service
for many long-drawn months. They had suffered hardships and severe
losses, yet day in and night out relays of these stumpily built
little craft were always to be found in the Otranto Straits,
sweeping for mines, looking for hostile submarines, and otherwise
doing their level best to circumvent Fritz and his Allies in their
stealthy acts of frightfulness.

But for one fact the drifters might be one or a hundred miles from
the "Zenodorus," for, also without lights, they were totally
invisible in the intense darkness. It was the constant crackle of
the wireless receiver that told the alert officer of the watch of
the position of the plucky little auxiliaries.

The sighting of the mysterious vessel called for immediate and
prompt action. No armed merchant cruiser or light cruiser of the
Royal Navy was known to be within ten miles of the "Zenodorus's"
"beat"; nor, according to official information from the Italian
Admiralty, were any of the Italian fleet under way in these waters.
The inference, therefore, was that the strange craft was an enemy
ship; possibly a raider striving to run the blockade, or else an
Austrian cruiser attempting a "tip-and-run" enterprise.

On the other hand, if the vessel were a hostile craft, how came she
to pass the outer drifter patrol without being challenged by the
alert guardians of the Straits?

Since the two vessels were approaching from almost exactly opposite
directions at an aggregate speed of approximately thirty-eight
knots, there was no time to be lost. The "Zenodorus" was cleared for
action. Her 6-inch quick-firers were loaded and trained abeam, ready
for eventualities, but, if shots were to be exchanged, the stranger
would open fire first, while as she swept by she would probably
loose a couple of torpedoes at close range. It was one of the few
advantages possessed by the Germans and their allies with the
practical disappearance of their above-water ships: every vessel
they met was either an enemy or a neutral. Should a mistake be made
and a neutral vessel sent to the bottom Germany would apologise for
the "regrettable incident" and offer compensation, but rarely did
the owners of the luckless neutral craft receive anything beyond the
empty "offer."

Sub-Lieutenant Farrar was quick to act. He knew that the senior
watch-keeper was in the chart-room. Before the navigator could
emerge from the brilliantly illuminated compartment and accustom his
eyes to the sudden transition from light to darkness the mischief
would be done--one way or the other.

"Port five!" ordered the sub.

"Port five, sir," replied the quartermaster.

"Steady!"

"Steady, sir," was the echoing response.

"'Midships!" Then to the watch on deck, "Prepare to ram!"

Even before the alert quartermaster could reply the expected
happened. The sharp bows of the "Zenodorus" crashed into the
starboard side of the stranger just abaft the foremast.

Those of the armed merchant cruiser's men who had not thrown
themselves flat upon the deck at the order to prepare to ram were
hurled violently off their feet, while above the rending of steel
plates came the loud sounds of the foremast and its attendant raffle
falling athwart the "Zenodorus" deck.

"By Jove!" exclaimed the sub gleefully, as a babel of voices
shouting in a guttural jargon came from the rammed ship. "I was
right. They are Austrians."

By hitting the enemy craft bows on Farrar had reduced the risk of
the "Zenodorus" being torpedoed to a minimum. At the best a torpedo
fired at close range could only strike a glancing blow, even
supposing the broadside tube could be trained sufficiently ahead to
bear upon the British vessel. So terrific had been the impact that
the crumpled bow-plates of the "Zenodorus" were within four or six
feet of the Austrian's foremast, while before both vessels lost way
the former had swung round until she was at right angles to the
latter's fore and aft plane.

All the time the "Zenodorus" was running her powerful engines full
speed ahead. This had the effect of keeping the sharp wedge of her
bows fixed in the gaping hole in her antagonist's side.

"On searchlights!" roared a voice that Farrar recognised as his
captain's. Within twenty seconds of the impact Lieutenant-Commander
Aubyn was on the bridge to direct operations.

A spurt of flame leapt from one of the after quick-firers on the
Austrian's starboard quarter, and a shell burst under the British
vessel's poop. It was a sign that the Austrian gunners were
recovering from the panic into which they had been thrown by the
unexpected manoeuvre of the "Zenodorus."

Lieutenant-Commander Aubyn forbore to give the order to open fire,
lest the enemy ship's magazine might explode and send both vessels
to a common fate, With the intention of drawing clear and taking up
a position on the Austrian's port bow, he telegraphed first for
"stop," then "half speed astern."

Before the "Zenodorus" could back away a score or more of the enemy
clambered upon her fo'c'sle. For the moment Farrar, as well as
several others of the officers and crew, was under the impression
that the men were endeavouring to save themselves by gaining the
deck of the ramming vessel, since it was practically a foregone
conclusion that their own craft would founder rapidly when the
"Zenodorus" backed clear of the huge rent in her side.

Eager to save life several of the crew went to the assistance of
their foes, only to make the discovery that the "Zenodorus" was
boarded by a swarm of armed and determined men, headed by a tall,
powerfully-built officer, brandishing an automatic pistol in each
hand.

"Repel boarders!" shouted Aubyn in stentorian tones, giving a
command that only on extremely rare occasions has been heard by a
British crew in action since the days of the old Wooden Walls. But a
lapse of over seventy years has not changed the enthusiasm of the
British tar for a hand-to-hand tumble with cold steel. Gone were the
old eight-foot pikes, the keen-edged boarding axes, and the
unreliable flint-lock pistols, but with their modern counterparts
the bluejackets surged for'ard in a cheering, yelling, irresistible
rush.

With the two powerful searchlights to aid them--for the boarders
fought with the dazzling glare full in their eyes--the "Zenodorus's"
men made short work of their opponents. The Austrian officer went
down with a cutlass through his chest, but not before he had killed
one and wounded three of his foes. A dozen of his men lay dead upon
the deck, while others, attempting to flee, found their retreat had
been cut off by the "Zenodorus" backing away from her prey. Seeing
that their case was hopeless they laid down their arms.

Even as the British armed merchant-cruiser gathered sternway a
torpedo, gleaming silvery white in the glare of the searchlight,
leapt from a tube in the enemy's main deck. Disappearing beneath the
waves amidst a cascade of glistening spray the missile almost grazed
the British vessel's port quarter, and missing her stern post, by
inches, harmlessly finished its run five miles from the scene of the
encounter.

It was the hostile craft's last bolt. So great was the inrush of
water that her fo'c'sle was awash. Heeling more and more she lay
right over on her beam ends, the surviving members of her crew
clambering up the now horizontal starboard side. Then, with a
muffled roar, her boilers exploded, completely severing the hull
into two parts. The for'ard portions already waterlogged, sank like
a stone. The remaining part of the hull, turning completely over,
remained in view for nearly five minutes, until, with very little
commotion, it too disappeared from view, leaving the agitated water
dotted with the heads of nearly a hundred survivors.

Already every available boat had been lowered from the "Zenodorus."
The quarter boats had been smashed by the solitary shell that had
exploded on her poop. Nevertheless the crew were instrumental in
saving seventy of the foes, many of whom were in a state of extreme
exhaustion.

"Seven feet of water in the forehold, sir," reported the carpenter,
who, upon the conclusion of the action, had gone below to ascertain
the amount of material damage below the water-line.

"Stokehold for'ard bulkhead holding?" inquired the captain
anxiously.

"Yes, sir; tight as a bottle; but our bows are properly stove in."

Aubyn turned to the officer of the watch.

"Did you give the order to ram?" he asked.

"No, sir," replied the lieutenant. "I was in the chart-room at the
time. Mr. Farrar was sub of the watch."

Rather dubious as to his reception Farrar stood at attention before
his skipper and made his report--straight to the point and avoiding
all unnecessary details.

"I congratulate you, Mr. Farrar," said the lieutenant-commander. "It
showed promptitude and daring on your part. Your reasoning was
sound--absolutely. She would have slipped a couple of tin-fish into
us for a dead cert. if you had let her run past our lee. As it was
we've come off lightly, but it would have been a costly mistake if
that craft had been a friend."

The "Zenodorus" was still forging astern.

With her damaged bows it would be a risky business to go ahead and
thus increase the hydrostatic pressure upon the transverse
bulkheads. The wreckage of the foremast was cut clear and temporary
wireless aerials sent aloft, a message being sent to the
"Zenoclides," the "next on station," asking her to relieve the
damaged vessel as soon as possible.

Examination of the prisoners revealed the information that the enemy
craft was the 8,000 ton Austrian Lloyd liner "Hapsburg," that had
been fitted out at Trieste for a raiding expedition to the Western
Mediterranean. That the Austrian naval authorities realised that
there was slight possibility of her return was evident from the
instructions given to her commanding officer. The captain of the
"Hapsburg" had been ordered to break through the Otranto patrol, if
possible, and then, directly matters became too hot, to make for a
Spanish port and be interned.

It was a daring piece of work--the evading of the drifter patrol.
Favoured by intense darkness and a northerly breeze the Austrian
vessel hoisted a square-sail of black canvas, and depending solely
upon the wind to give her steerage way, ran noiselessly through the
British outer line. Then, putting on all speed, she trusted to
chance to avoid the supporting cruisers, only to be sent to the
bottom by the "Zenodorus."

"It will mean six weeks in dock," observed Captain Aubyn, when the
damage was revealed in the morning light. "But it might have been a
jolly sight worse."

The crumpled state of the armed merchantman's bows made her injuries
appear greater than they actually were. For thirty feet the plating
was buckled and twisted, the deck planks shattered, and the whole of
No. 2 transverse bulkhead exposed to the level of the water. The
"Zenodorus" was nine feet down by the bows, but fortunately beyond
the flooding of the forehold the rest of the hull was still
watertight. As additional evidence of the immense force of the
impact, the "Hapsburg's" steam capstan had been uprooted from its
bed and had been forced completely through the British cruiser's
for'ard bulkhead, where it remained as a trophy of the encounter.

With the loss of the foremast and the damage aft caused by the
explosion of the hostile shell, the "Zenodorus" looked a wreck, but,
as the lieutenant-commander had remarked, it might have been a jolly
sight worse.

Under easy steam and escorted by a destroyer the battered merchant
cruiser crawled back to Malta, where steps were immediately taken to
make good defects.

At the first opportunity Sub-Lieutenant Farrar sought an interview
with his commanding officer and made a suggestion.

Aubyn listened interestedly. His junior officer's scheme seemed
practicable, while the sub was quite capable of being entrusted with
its execution.

"Very good, Mr. Farrar," exclaimed the "owner" of the "Zenodorus."
"I'll submit the matter to the Commander-in-Chief, and no doubt he
will concur. I don't see why you shouldn't go on a roving commission
for the next three weeks; it will be preferable to cooling your
heels in Valetta. By Jove! I wish I could go with you."




CHAPTER XXI

THE LAST VOYAGE OF S.S. "ANDROMEDA"


FOR nearly half a minute silence followed von Loringhoven's dramatic
assertion. Only the ticking of a clock over the oak mantelpiece
broke the stillness.

Then the commercial who had been reading the newspaper coughed
deprecatingly.

"We are too tough old birds to be caught with chaff, sir," he
remarked. "If you want cheap notoriety try the nearest constable."

His companions laughed at the apparent discomfiture of a man who had
attempted a hoax and had been detected.

"I was once in the company of a man who declared that he was
Clutterbung, the fraudulent lawyer for whose arrest a thousand
pounds reward was offered," observed one of the company. "On that
instance the fellow was a bit wrong under the thatch. Not that I
wish to insinuate anything, sir, but really your assertion is so
palpably improbable that I--or rather we--decline to be imposed
upon."

Von Loringhoven was breathing freely now. The crucial moment of the
ordeal was passed. By making a bold statement he had "drawn" the men
with whom he was in company.

"Must break the ice," he remarked pleasantly. "I've been sitting
here the greater part of the evening in icy isolation. Sorry the
Defence of the Realm Regulations will not permit me to stand
drinks."

For the next hour conversation proceeded briskly, the ober-leutnant
"pitching a yarn" of how he earned his gold stripes, giving
elaborate details with such fidelity that an old soldier might have
been deceived, let alone a group of commercials. In return they gave
him hints about the country around Hereford, and learning that he
was making his way there by road, considerately mapped out the best
route from Birmingham to the Welsh border.

Refreshed and with renewed confidence von Loringhoven left Selly Oak
early next morning, and riding steadily found himself at Gloucester
by noon.

About five miles beyond the city he halted at a small wayside inn,
where half a dozen yokels were exchanging mutual congratulations
upon their being able to obtain beer. Presently the countrymen left
to resume work, and von Loringhoven found himself in the sole
company of a short, thick-set man dressed in a blue serge coat and
trousers, a soiled peaked cap, and a muffler of doubtful colour
round his neck. From the fact that the bottoms of his trousers were
tucked into his grey woollen socks the ober-leutnant came to the
correct conclusion that the seafarer was the possessor of a bicycle
which von Loringhoven had observed leaning against the outside wall.

"Roads heavy, mate," remarked the man, wiping his lips with the back
of his hand.

"Fairish stiff," agreed the Hun.

The other, producing a plug of hard tobacco from his cap
deliberately cut off a few thick flakes and then handed the plug to
his companion.

Von Loringhoven accepted the gift. He realised that there might be
possibilities in engaging in conversation with the seaman.

"S'pose I'm out o' gear," continued the latter. "Ain't been riding
for over a twelvemonth. I'm deck-hand aboard the old 'Andromeda,'"
he added gratuitously, pronouncing the classical name with
tremendous accent upon the "me." "A swine of a tub she is; still we
diddled Old Fritz on the homeward run from Mobile."

"Oh," remarked the ober-leutnant. "How was that?"

"Well, it was like this. We were off the Fastnet, bound for the
Bristol Channel, when up pops a blank U-boat astern of us. Since we
could only do nine knots 'twasn't much good trying to foot it, so
our Old Man hoisted a bloomin' signal to some hooker what wasn't
anywhere abouts, up-helmed and makes straight for Old Fritz. Fritz
didn't like that 'ere signal, no more'n he liked the idea of our old
packet goin' for her, so he dives. Bless me if our Old Man didn't
keep cruisin' around for the best part of an hour, just to make
Fritz think as 'ow he was a patrol boat. Still he might have got us.
I've been torpedoed three times already."

"Then I should think you'd had enough of it," said von Loringhoven
tentatively.

"Me--not much," replied the man, bridling at the mere suggestion.
"It'll take more'n Old Fritz's tin-pot submarines to choke me off.
My old grandfather didn't used to be frightened at Boney's
privateers, an' he sailed from Bristol Town for more'n fifty years.
What's bred in the bone--you know, mate. An' I ain't the only one,
not by long chalks."

"Where are you bound this voyage?" asked the German.

"Dunno exactly," was the reply. "There was some talk of the
'Andromeda' making a run to Alexandra. Look 'ere, mate, you're axing
me a lot o' questions. 'Ow about yourself; wot are you doin'?"

"Me--I'm only a cast-off Tommy," replied von Loringhoven.

"Then you must a' been pretty badly knocked about," commented the
seaman, "or they wouldn't let you out of it."

"Still able to work, thank goodness," replied the ober-leutnant. He
saw possibilities in keeping up the conversation. "How about
it--shall we ride together as far as Bristol?"

For a few moments the man did not reply. He was draining his
tankard, and his range of vision was limited to about nine-tenths of
the interior surface of the metal mug, while his gullet was working
like a piston-rod.

"Right-o, mate," he replied at length. "I'm on it; only don't forget
I can't do more'n ten knots with a following wind."

During the remainder of the journey von Loringhoven made sure of his
ground, and came to the conclusion that it was safe to take this
newly found friend into his confidence--up to a certain point.

"What's the best way of getting out of the country?" he asked. "I'm
fed up with England. For all I know they may call me up for
re-examination and pack me off to the front again. Straight, I've
had enough. No chance of shipping on board the 'Andromeda,' I
suppose?"

"Might," replied the other. "But you ain't 'ad no experience, 'ave
yer?"

"I was in a small barquentine for a couple of voyages--ten years
ago," declared von Loringhoven with perfect truth. He had, like many
other German naval officers, taken on a job on a Baltic timber
vessel trading with various South of England ports--solely with the
idea of getting acquainted with certain British harbours in view of
the approach of The Day.

"No discharge papers, I suppose?" asked the seaman.

The ober-leutnant was obliged to confess that he had none.

"I can work it," continued his companion. "It'll cost you a couple
o' quid, an' I can put you on to a man who'll rig you out with slops
for the matter of another one-pound note. Can you rise to it?"

"I think so," replied von Loringhoven.

Three days later the s.s. "Andromeda," of 2,170 tons burthen, warped
out of Avonmouth dock on her voyage to Alexandria. Her cargo
consisted of military stores, her crew thirty-seven hands, including
Jimmy Marsh, alias Otto von Loringhoven.

The ober-leutnant had not the faintest desire to go as far as the
Mediterranean. He was firmly convinced that the tramp would be
captured by an Unterseeboot before she was well clear of the Bristol
Channel, in which case he would declare his identity to the
kapitan-leutnant of the U-boat and be taken on board the
representative substitute of the German High Seas Fleet.

Hour after hour, day after day, the eight-knotter steamed sedately
on her course, but not a single U-boat was to be seen. Off Cape de
Roca the "Andromeda" was ordered into harbour to ship mules for
Egypt, but Portuguese territory offered von Loringhoven no
inducement to desert. He might have made his way into Spain; but
then the fact still remained that hostile country separated him from
the Fatherland.

Off Gib. the tramp was received by British patrol boats and
shepherded through the U-boat infested Straits. One hundred and
fifty miles east of Algiers the condensers gave trouble, and the old
tramp had to be towed into Bona for repairs that took the best part
of six weeks.

Von Loringhoven stuck it gamely. He had no option. There was nothing
to entice him to desert in Algerian territory, while in order to
keep up his rôle he applied himself diligently to whatever task was
allotted him, hoping that in the Eastern Mediterranean, where German
and Austrian U-boats were showing great activity, the fate of the
"Andromeda" would be sealed.

At length the tedious journey was resumed.

On the fifth day after leaving Bona the tramp sighted a
felucca-rigged vessel flying Greek colours and proceeding on a
course that would put her athwart the "Andromeda's" bows.

For a quarter of an hour both vessels held on in their respective
directions, until, in accordance with the rule of the road, the
tramp's master ordered the helm to be ported to enable the steamer
to pass under the stern of the sailing craft.

Von Loringhoven, who with others of the crew was engaged in splicing
a wire hawser that had been "nipped" during the "Andromeda's" stay
at Bona, regarded the felucca with languid interest. He had seen
feluccas many times before. At first sight this one seemed much the
same as the others. The nondescript crew in motley garb looked the
picture of Near Eastern indolence as they sprawled in various
attitudes. Even the helmsman seemed almost too languid to exert any
pressure upon the long tiller.

Presently von Loringhoven's interest quickened. Never before had he
seen a Levantine craft with spotless decks nor the ropes neatly
flemished. Amidships was a double-ended boat with high bow and stern
posts. Over her an awning had been thrown to prevent the rays of the
sun opening her seams. In these days of unrestricted piracy such a
precaution was necessary, since the crew might have to take to the
boat at five minutes' notice. So there was nothing extraordinary
about the canvas-covered boat; but when an eddying wind lifted one
corner of the awning the ober-leutnant's curiosity was fully on the
alert, for plainly revealed was the rubber-shod shoulder piece
of a quick-firer.

Half an hour later the felucca was out of sight. It was now von
Loringhoven's watch below, and having fed on fo'c'sle fare he turned
into his bunk.

Shortly after midnight the Hun, with the rest of the men off duty,
was awakened by a terrific crash and a tremendous shock that flung
most of the sleepers out of their berths. It needed not the bo'sun's
shout of "On deck, every mother's son of you!" to clear the
fore-peak.

The "Andromeda" had been torpedoed without warning, the explosion
tearing a huge rent under her port quarter.

She was foundering rapidly. There was hardly time for the men to
pass five of their badly wounded and injured mates into the boats
before her rail was awash. Barely had the Old Man leapt into the
last boat to get away when the "Andromeda" flung her stern high in
the night air and slithered noisily beneath the surface.

Hardly able to realise that their floating home had disappeared from
view the men lay on their oars until the master shouted to the chief
mate for the boats to keep together.

"We'll be picked up as soon as it's daylight, lads," he added
encouragingly. "So tighten your belts and keep a stiff upper lip."

"Submarine dead ahead," shouted several voices when, ten minutes
later, a long, low-lying dark shape came into view, silhouetted
against the starlit sea.

"Coming to poke Charley at us," muttered the first mate. "Don't give
them any lip, lads, or as likely as not they'll throw the whole
crowd of us into the ditch."

Carrying little way the U-boat slipped in between the "Andromeda's"
boats. An officer and a couple of seamen were standing on the
platform surrounding the conning-tower; more men were clustered
round the quick-firers.

"What sheep haf we sunk?" demanded a guttural voice.

"The 'Andromeda' of Avonmouth," replied the master.

"Von swine of English sheep no more," chortled the U-boat officer.
"Where your kapitan is?"

There was silence in the boats. The Old Man would have replied, but
for the fact that the bo'sun had clapped his horny palm over his
superior officer's mouth, and with a praiseworthy disregard for
disparity of rank had bade him "keep his jaw-tackle bowsed down."

The inquiry was repeated in a decidedly menacing tone.

"Not here," answered the first mate, grasping the situation. "Most
likely he's gone down."

As a matter of fact the staunch old skipper was "down," but in a
different sense, for, endeavouring to assert defiantly that he was
the master of s.s. "Andromeda" and not afraid of a pack of piratical
Huns, he had been forcibly placed on his back in the stern sheets of
the boat.

So intent upon other matters was von Loringhoven, who was in the
first mate's boat, that the purport of the dialogue with the
kapitan-leutnant of the U-boat failed to leave any impression on his
mind.

"Take me on board!" he hailed in German. "I am Ober-Leutnant von
Loringhoven, late of U 254."

"Silence there!" ordered the first mate sternly. With the rest of
the survivors of the tramp he did not understand German, nor had he
any suspicion that the words were in that language.

Great was his astonishment when the submarine commander ordered the
boat alongside, and a couple of German seamen assisted the all too
willing von Loringhoven over the bulging sides of the pirate craft.
Then, her twin propellers churning the water into eddies of
phosphorescence, the U-boat forged ahead and left the rest of the
"Andromeda's" crew to their reflections.

"Wonder why the deuce those Huns collared Jimmy Marsh?" was the
question that puzzled the boats' crews. "Suppose he knew a bit of
Hun lingo and gave them lip, and they didn't like it."

Meanwhile von Loringhoven was being entertained in the cabin of the
kapitan-leutnant of the U-boat, and at an early stage in the
conversation he startled his brother-officer by remarking,

"If you should fall in with a felucca, Heinrich, have a care--she's
dangerous."




CHAPTER XXII

FARRAR'S FIRST BAG


SUBLIEUTENANT NIGEL FARRAR had a very busy week following the return
of H.M. armed merchant cruiser "Zenodorus" to Malta. With a celerity
undreamt of in pre-war days his project had been submitted to the
Commander-in-Chief, who returned it with the magic word "Concur."

"That's splendid, Mr. Farrar," remarked Lieutenant-Commander Aubyn.
"The next thing to be done is to find a suitable craft. There are
several condemned prizes lying off the Pieta Marine. Take the steam
cutter and have a look at them."

The sub lost no time in carrying out his commanding officer's
suggestion. Accompanied by the bo'sun and the carpenter of the
"Zenodorus"--for their expert advice was highly desirable--he
steered the cutter down the Grand Harbour, rounded St. Elmo on the
port hand, and ran up the long, land-locked arm known as the
Quarantine Harbour, thus almost circumnavigating the rocky peninsula
on which the town of Valetta is built.

Almost at the head of the creek were between twenty and thirty
sailing craft of all sizes up to a hundred tons, of all variety of
rigs, and of half a dozen different nationalities. Some had been
owned by enemy firms and had been detained when war broke out or
else captured within a very few days of the declaration of
hostilities; others had been seized on suspicion of having conveyed
contraband or assisting U-boats in their career of piracy and
murder.

It was not long before Farrar picked upon a likely vessel for his
forthcoming "independent cruise." She was of about eighty tons
burthen according to Board of Trade measurements, and well built and
structurally sound both above and below water. She was
felucca-rigged, her long lateen yards, destitute of canvas, lying
along her sheering deck.

"What is her history?" inquired the sub of the warrant officer in
charge of the prizes.

Reference to a docket showed that the "Afir-el-Bahr" had been
captured by the boats of H.M.S. "Hammerer" during the trouble with
the Senussi. The felucca, bought at a Tunisian port and flying the
French flag, had been caught red-handed.

That same afternoon Farrar had the felucca towed round to the Grand
Harbour, where she was hauled up on a cradle for cleaning and
anti-fouling. Working all night shipwrights bored her stern-post and
fitted a stern tube and propeller. This essential work having been
carried out with strict secrecy, the "Afir-el-Bahr" was again
launched and towed off alongside the "Zenodorus," for owing to all
the dry docks being occupied, below-water repairs to the merchant
cruiser had to be deferred.

In a polyglot port, although in a British Crown Colony, the danger
of espionage was far more difficult to cope with than at a home
station. The true Maltese is a loyal subject of King George, but on
the island are hundreds, perhaps thousands of doubtful
characters--men of pure or partial Arab, Greek, Moorish, Syrian, or
Algerian descent--many of whom were either potential or latent
spies. Consequently, all work in connection with the refitting of
the felucca that might be likely to cause comment was performed
during the hours of darkness.

A seventy-horse-power motor was installed in the after-hold; the
deck beams were strengthened and their planks doubled in order to
take the weight of two four-inch quick-firers. The for'ard gun,
taken from a captured U-boat, was of the "disappearing" type, being
housed, when not in use, in a water-tight compartment flush with the
deck. The second quick-firer was placed amidships, being screened
from observation from the sea-level by the high bulwarks, while as
an additional precaution a Maltese-built boat was placed on chocks
on deck, so that the weapon lay snugly against the quarter.

The existing wooden bulwarks were removed and replaced by others of
light but hardened steel capable of withstanding rifle and
machinegun bullets, while at intervals the metal plating was hinged
so as to fall flat upon the deck and give the guns a wide arc of
fire.

During the progress of this work several large wicker hampers were
received on board. These, when opened, were found to be full of
clothes not usually worn by men of His Majesty's Service, but
nevertheless the garments were served out to a dozen of the crew,
who entered into the game of make-believe with a zest that Jack Tar
always displays when engaged in anything of the nature of amateur
theatricals.

Ammunition, stores, and provisions were then stowed on board; new
canvas, purposely soiled to appear in common with the rest of the
craft, was bent to the cumbersome yards; a wireless telegraphy
installation was fitted, the aerials being kept below until actually
required, and finally forty of the ship's company of the "Zenodorus"
took up their quarters on the "Afir-el-Bahr" under the command of
Sub-Lieutenant Farrar.

Much to his disappointment Greenwood was refused permission to
accompany his chum: the A.P.'s abilities were in strong demand on
board the armed merchant cruiser, while as a member of the
non-combatant branch there was little need for his services on
particular work. As second-in-command, Mr. Gripper, the gunner of
the "Zenodorus," was chosen, while to safeguard the health of the
felucca's crowded crew a surgeon-probationer, Dick Leech by name,
was "lent" from one of the harbour service ships.

All preparations completed, the felucca was towed out of the Grand
Harbour shortly after midnight, and, exchanging signals with Forts
Ricasoli and St. Elmo that vigilantly guarded the port, passed
through the formidable barrier athwart the entrance.

Clear of the land the tug cast off her tow and the felucca, renamed
the "Georgeos Nikolaos," hoisted sail and bore away on an easterly
course.

Nigel Farrar had no cause to regret his choice of the craft. The
felucca was stiff, weatherly, sailed well, and for her type pointed
high. Her sharp bows and clean run aft gave her a fair turn of
speed, notwithstanding her large complement and heavy cargo. The
sub's experience on board his father's yacht in those far-off
pre-war days was proving useful, for he had not lost the art of
getting every ounce out of a vessel under sail.

The warrant officer, the felucca's second-in-command, was also a
good sailing man. Although belonging to the _pukka_ navy, Mr.
Gripper had had considerable experience in sailing cutters off the
East Coast of Africa, where expeditions in search of slave-running
dhows afforded plenty of excitement and danger, with a chance of a
few tough "scraps" thrown in. The gunner was also a stern
disciplinarian. Even on board the felucca he would have things run
in proper Navy fashion, while with a view of keeping the "hands" out
of mischief he had the little craft's deck holystoned and the ropes
either neatly coiled or flemished.

It was he who had picked two "gunlayers 1st Class" from the
"Zenodorus's" ship's company, men who were able to perform feats
little short of miraculous with the merchant cruiser's six-inch
quick-firers. Woe betide a periscope that incautiously poked its
tips above the surface anywhere within two thousand yards if either
Sampson or Claydon happened to be laying the guns. Whether they
would be able to maintain their reputation with the four-inch
weapons of the "Georgeos Nikolaos" remained to be seen.

With the exception of half a dozen British seamen beautifully
disguised as Greeks all hands on deck were strictly enjoined to keep
their heads below the top of the bulwarks, while whenever a vessel
was sighted every one not in "fancy rig" was ordered below.
Outwardly the felucca looked like a peaceful trader, but she had a
stern and retributive duty to perform--to avenge a certain
hospital-ship that had been wantonly torpedoed in broad daylight.

The day passed without anything of an untoward nature occurring. At
sunset the wind dropped, and the felucca lay almost motionless. She
was in no hurry to make any port in particular, and there was no
need to make use of the motor. After dark the wireless aerials were
sent aloft, while the operator stuck to his little cabin on the
offchance of picking up an "S.O.S." message from a hard-pressed
merchantman. Yet no such indication was received. The felucca might
have been sailing the Mediterranean in peace time as far as the
presence of German Unterseebooten was concerned.

Dawn of the second day found the "Georgeos Nikolaos" 120 miles east
of Malta. The flat calm still prevailed, although the vivid red
sunrise presaged dirty weather. The felucca was rolling sullenly,
her lateen yards groaning dismally as they ground and thumped
against the raking masts.

With a scarlet scarf bound round his head in place of his
white-covered uniform cap, Farrar swept the expanse of oily sea by
means of his binoculars. Presently he caught sight of an indistinct
shape that looked much like a truncated cone, its distance from the
felucca being not far short of three miles.

"See what you make of that, Mr. Gripper," he remarked, addressing
the warrant officer, who was about to take over the watch. "Dead in
line with that shroud; can you pick it up?"

The gunner took the proffered binoculars, hung his cap on a
belaying-pin, and levelled the glasses in the direction indicated.

"A Fritz, sir," he declared. "Busting up to see what he can pinch.
Never saw a Hun hurrying to his own funeral so smart before--unless
this infernal roll gives the show away."

"Lie close, men," ordered the sub, addressing those of the felucca's
complement who were not playing the rôle of Greeks. "All clear
there, Sampson?"

"All clear, sir," replied the gunlayer confidently, as he gave a
preliminary tug to the lever operating the raising mechanism of the
disappearing gun.

"Hoist the colours, Dixon," continued the sub.

A barefooted bluejacket wearing a pair of fierce-looking turned-up
moustachios, glittering "gold" earrings, a loosely-fitting red
shirt, and a pair of trousers of grotesque cut, pattered aft with
the Greek colours in one hand and a neatly rolled up ensign in the
other. Bending the blue and white flag to the signal halliards of
the main lateen yard-arm he hoisted the colours of the Mercantile
Marine of the Kingdom of Greece. The rolled ensign he toggled to the
ensign-staff halliards, keeping the compact bundle of bunting well
below the taffrail.

The U-boat came up rapidly and unhesitatingly. Evidently the
anticipated prize was not thought worth a warning shot, although the
 pirates were manning the for'ard "disappearing" gun. The whole of
her length--close on 250 feet--was exposed, nearly a score of her
crew being distributed along the deck. On the conning-tower platform
stood a couple of gold-laced officers and the helmsman, for when
running on the surface and not about to attack this type of craft is
steered by means of a wheel in front of the conning tower.

From a stumpy mast in the wake of the twin periscopes the Black
Cross ensign of Germany drooped sullenly in the still air, as if
ashamed to display the badge of infamy.

At a distance of about two cables' lengths, the U-boat made a
complete circuit of the felucca, as if to show her powers of
manoeuvring. It was like a cat playing with a mouse.

"'Georgeos Nikolaos' ahoy!" shouted the kapitan-leutnant in a vile
smattering of the language of the modern Hellenes. "Where are you
bound? What is your cargo?"

One of the disguised bluejackets replied. An R.N.R. man he had,
prior to the outbreak of hostilities, been a steward on a passenger
boat plying between Port Said, the Piraeus, and Constantinople, and
was decidedly a very handy member of the felucca's crew.

"We are from Messina, bound for Damietta, with a general cargo,
illustrious kapitan," he replied.

"Ach! general cargo--contraband every kilogramme. Abandon your
craft. I give you five minutes."

"But," protested the pseudo Greek, "we have only one small boat, and
we are many leagues from the nearest land. Bad weather threatens.
Have you no mercy?"

"Since you Grecian dogs are fond of licking the feet of your
accursed taskmasters who are the enemies of the German Fatherland,"
snapped the Hun, "you can drown or starve for aught I care. In any
case, you will have plenty of time for reflection. Hasten; one
minute of the five has already gone."

With every semblance of panic-stricken haste the members of the
"theatrical stunt" threw themselves upon the boat amidships,
swinging it outboard by means of tackle from the yards.

Jabbering in imitation of the cosmopolitan seafarers of various
Mediterranean ports the disguised bluejackets leapt into the boat
and began to row away from the felucca as hard as they could.

Farrar glanced aft. A seaman had crawled to the taffrail, and was
handling the ensign halliards in gleeful anticipation, while another
man was "standing by" the halliard of the Greek flag--or, rather, he
was sitting on the deck with the uncleated ropes in his horny hands.

The U-boat was approaching slowly. To save time in the expected
looting operations she evidently meant to run alongside. She was now
but a cable's length away.

The sub sprang to his feet. Simultaneously the blue and white
striped flag was struck, while a tug on the ensign halliards "broke
out" the British White Ensign. Down fell several sections of the
hinged steel bulwarks, revealing to the astounded Huns the deck of
the felucca crowded with armed bluejackets and the muzzles of the
two four-inch quick-firers pointing straight at the U-boat's conning
tower.

"Surrender instantly!" shouted the sub in stentorian tones.

The result hardly came up to the sub's expectations. Several of the
Huns on the forepart of the U-boat raised their hands high above
their heads, abject terror showing itself on their blanched faces
and by their trembling limbs. Two of them promptly leapt overboard,
and struck out as hard as they could away from the doomed pirate
craft.

The kapitan-leutnant was cast in a sterner mould. Shouting an order
to the waverers he bolted into the conning tower. The hinged
water-tight lid closed automatically, cutting off the retreat of the
unter-leutnant and those of the crew who were still on deck.

Almost at the next moment a trail of air bubbles and a diverging
wake of foam announced that the U-boat had let loose a torpedo at
practically point-blank range. It was a chance shot, and fortunately
the felucca had drifted just beyond the line of direction from the
U-boat's fixed bow tube. Missing her stern by less than a couple of
yards the powerful locomotive missile finished its run at nearly
three miles from its target.

At the first indication of the firing of the torpedo, Sub-Lieutenant
Farrar rapped out an order. Both four-inch guns spoke
simultaneously. The shells did their work effectively and with
appalling suddenness, for penetrating the base of the U-boat's
conning tower they burst with disastrous results in the interior of
the steel hull.

By the force of the irresistible explosion of the lyddite shells the
submarine simply buckled. For a brief instant the bow and stern were
lifted clear of the water, to disappear in a smother of smoke and
flame. As the U-boat sank a quantity of petrol and oil was forced
through the jagged hole amidships, and being lighter than water the
highly inflammable fluid spread far and wide. The next instant the
sea for a radius of fifty yards across the spot where the Hun craft
had disappeared was a blaze of fire, the hissing flames threatening
to set alight the idle sails of the felucca.

"Start up!" shouted the sub, addressing the engine-room artificer in
charge of the "Georgeos Nikolaos" motor.

The order was promptly obeyed, and the felucca, gathering way,
passed out of the danger zone, but not before the paint on her sides
was blistered by the flames.

Declutching the propeller shafting the felucca lost way at three
cables' distance from the still burning oil. Her officers and men on
the look out for possible survivors, saw none; nor did the boat with
its disguised crew, although she was rowed right up to the edge of
the blazing patch of oil-covered water. Those of the U-boat's crew
who had not gone down with the shattered hull had perished miserably
in the flames.

"Hoist the recall," ordered the sub, and the boat, returning to the
felucca, was hoisted on board.

For a few minutes the aerials were sent aloft, and a laconic message
dispatched to the Commander-in-Chief.




CHAPTER XXIII

THE STORM


STRIKING the White Ensign and securing the guns the "Georgeos
Nikolaos" awaited the expected breeze. It was not long in coming.
Almost before the conflagration had burnt itself out in a succession
of popping sounds, the placid surface was rippled by cat's paws that
denoted something heavy behind it.

Heeling gently to the zephyr the felucca quickly gathered way and
soon left the scene of her initial exploit far astern. By degrees
the wind increased, until an extended milky-white wake gave evidence
of her speed, while the long tiller vibrated under the pressure of
the water against her rudder.

"Now she feels it, sir," remarked Mr. Gripper, as a squall struck
the felucca full on the beam, and the tautened weather-shrouds
twanged like harp-strings. "A thundering good job we know she's
sound alow and aloft, for we're in for a tidy old dusting. There's
something mighty heavy to windward," and he pointed to a bank of
indigo-coloured clouds, the rugged edges of which were tinged with
light grey and yellow hues.

"A couple of reefs in, don't you think?" asked the sub, raising his
voice in order to make himself heard above the howling of the wind.

"Just as well, sir," agreed the gunner. "Seeing that we aren't in a
hurry to get anywhere in particular we needn't run the risk of
carrying away any of the gear for the sake of cracking on."

"Hands shorten sail!" bawled the sub.

Reefing was performed by the cumbersome process of lowering the
heavy lateen yards on deck and rolling the foot of each sail
sufficiently to allow the second row of reef points to be secured.
The canvas was then rehoisted and sheeted home, but by this time the
wind had dropped entirely. The tiller was charging from side to side
under the severe buffeting of the waves against the useless rudder,
until Mr. Gripper ordered the relieving tackle to be rove in order
to prevent the helmsman's ribs being fractured by the flail-like
blows of the oaken tiller. Save for the shaking of the sails and the
clatter of the ropes and blocks against the mast a strange, almost
uncanny silence prevailed. The air was hot and oppressive, while
overhead the sky was overcast by a thick haze--the precursor of the
storm cloud to which the gunner had called attention.

"Mind your helm," cautioned Farrar. "We'll get it hard in a moment.
We don't want to be taken aback."

"There's no way on, sir," reported the quartermaster, who was
assisting the helmsman at the recalcitrant tiller. "She won't answer
to it."

Presently the ominous silence was torn by a shrill whistling
sound--the forerunner of the approaching squall.

"Stand by fore and main sheets!" shouted the sub, as, with a
sledge-hammer blow, the first of the storm burst upon the little
craft.

In spite of her draught the "Georgeos Nikolaos" lay right over on
her beam ends, the foam flying completely over her weather bulwarks,
while the surging water was knee-deep in her lee scuppers. Spars
groaned and creaked, ropes rattled against the masts like a round of
machine-gun fire; blocks crashed against metal and timber work to
the imminent danger of strops and sheaves, while on and below deck
everything not securely lashed down broke adrift and added to the
pandemonium.

For a few long-drawn seconds things looked black metaphorically and
literally. It was a question whether the felucca would either
capsize or be dismasted before she gathered way and answered to the
helm; but nobly the hardly pressed craft responded to the challenge
of the elements, and in a swelter of foam she threshed on her way
through the tempestuous seas. So heavy were the rain squalls that
at times it was impossible for the helmsman to discern the plunging
bows, while the deck was hidden by the falling and rebounding
hailstones.

"Hanged if I like that chunk of timber swaying aloft, sir!" bellowed
the warrant officer, pointing to the ponderous main lateen yard.
"She'll carry away her preventer back stays in a brace of shakes."

"We'll lower away the mainsail," decided Farrar. "She'll run
comfortably then."

It was easier said than done to send down that long yard and secure
it fore and aft. It took the united efforts of twenty men to master
the stiff canvas that even when the yard was on deck was flogging
and bellying out with the utmost fury, as if loath to submit to the
indignity of being pinioned by the gaskets. At last the task was
accomplished and the felucca, driving right before the gale,
certainly made better weather of it.

For the best part of six hours the little craft ran. Both the sub
and Mr. Gripper estimated her speed at eleven knots. At that rate
she would soon be on a lee shore off the island of Crete, where
harbours on the southern side are few and far between. The incessant
rain and the blackness of the sky prevented any possibility of
taking observations, and navigation became a matter of simple dead
reckoning.

Presently the wind dropped almost to a flat calm. The crested seas,
beaten down by the rain, subsided into long sullen rollers.

"Merely a lull," declared the warrant officer. "I've put in three
commissions up the Straits, and I ought to know a bit about the
weather by this time, or I'm a Dutchman. It'll veer and blow dead in
our teeth."

"Up helm and let her lay to on the port tack," ordered the sub, glad
to have the experience and resource of the warrant officer at his
disposal. He thrust back the sliding hatch of the companion and
glanced at an aneroid on the bulkhead. The barometer stood at
28.75", with a decided tendency to drop still lower.

"Wish to goodness we had fore and aft canvas instead of this unwieldy
tackle," he thought, as the fore yard rattled in the slings and
hammered against the raking mast with a succession of thuds that
shook the vessel from truck to keel. "However, it's no use wanting
what is not to be had. I'll have that foresail close reefed. If
Gripper was right, we'll have plenty of sea room. Hullo, Stevenson,
what is it now?"

This to the leading hand of the carpenter's crew, who had just come
up from below.

"Three feet of water in the forehold, sir," he reported. "Maybe some
of the gear's carried away and stove a plank, or else she's strained
her forefoot."

Hands were immediately ordered to the pumps, with the result that
the leak was soon got under control, but directly the wind piped up
again the influx of water was resumed. Evidently the hammering of
the sea had either started a plank or loosened some of her caulking,
necessitating constant work with the powerful semi-rotary pumps with
which the felucca had been supplied in lieu of the antiquated
gadgets previously fitted to get rid of the bilge water.

But Petty Officer Stevenson was a man of many parts--one of those
resourceful individuals whose value is not sufficiently appreciated
by the Powers that Be. Calling for a couple of hands to volunteer
for the hazardous work, he went below, and in the heaving, confined
space of the forehold, set to work to remove a number of the barrels
and chests at the immediate risk of being jammed between the heavy
articles as they jolted and slid with every movement of the vessel.
The sight of a steady stream of water rewarded his efforts. Betwixt
wind and water one of the planks had been "started," probably by the
impact of a piece of floating wreckage.

By means of a bit of tarred canvas with a backing of copper sheet
Stevenson succeeded in stopping the leak, short pieces of timber
being shored up between the ribs to make all secure, and at the end
of two hours' hard and exhausting work the three men returned on
deck, the petty officer making his satisfactory report as
nonchalantly as if he had just carried out some trivial routine.

Throughout the rest of the day and the whole of the ensuing night,
the "Georgeos Nikolaos" drove almost under bare poles, for sail had
been reduced to a close-reefed foresail. Not a craft of any
description had been sighted during the whole of that time. It was
quite possible that more than once the felucca was in imminent
danger of being run down by large steamers plying their way without
lights through the trackless wastes; reasonable even to assume that
she had sailed over U-boats that, to avoid the storm, were running
submerged at a depth of a hundred to one hundred and fifty feet.
More than once Farrar's thoughts flew to Billy Barcroft. He found
himself picturing the "Avenger," and wondering how she was faring
should the flying-boat happen to be caught out in the sudden storm.
Long afterwards the sub made the discovery that Barcroft was "up"
during the gale, and running serenely at a height of 8,000 feet, had
passed within a few miles of the "Georgeos Nikolaos," for the
"Avenger" was on her way to take up patrolling duties in the AEgean,
where U-boats had been somewhat too active of late.

At daybreak the gale moderated. The inky clouds were disappearing to
leeward, while the sun rising in a greyish mist betokened, in
conjunction with a steadier glass, the approach of better weather.
Still the sea ran high, the absence of rain causing the
white-crested tips to curl and break viciously.

For the first time for thirty hours Farrar went below to enjoy a
brief spell of welcome sleep. So dog-tired was he that he waited
only to draw off his sea-boots, discard his oilskin, hurriedly drink
a cup of cocoa and munch a couple of biscuits, than he threw himself
into his bunk "all standing," and was soon lost to the world.

It seemed that he had been asleep for less than two minutes when a
voice exclaimed,

"Large transport just torpedoed, sir; three miles on our starboard
bow."




CHAPTER XXIV

THE SINKING TRANSPORT


HIS utter weariness deserting him on the receipt of this
disconcerting intelligence, Sub-Lieutenant Farrar leapt from his
bunk, pulled on his boots, and ran up the companion ladder.

Already Mr. Gripper had called the men to action stations. The
for'ard disappearing gun had been raised, its presence being hidden
from outside observation by the foot of the reefed foresail. Prone
on the deck lay the uniformed crew, alertly awaiting orders to man
the quick-firers and strafe the lurking foe.

The sun was now shining brightly, although the wind was still
strong--"Force Six," according to the warrant officer's report. A
wicked-looking sea, white with foam, extended as far as the eye
could reach, the monotonous crests being broken in one place by the
grey hull of a badly listing vessel of about 8,000 tons.

The torpedoed craft lay well over to starboard and well down by the
stern. Clouds of smoke and steam were issuing from amidships. Three
pairs of davits were empty, while from a fourth a boat hung
vertically, crashing against the hull with the long sluggish
movements of the sinking ship. The rest of the boats on the windward
side were still hoisted, the captain evidently deciding that to
attempt to lower in such a sea was a matter of impossibility, with
certain risk of disaster. How the boats on the port side fared the
felucca's people were unable to see, although bearing to leeward
they stood a better chance of pulling clear of the foundering
transport.

Upon the steeply sloping decks of the heeling vessel, numbers of
khaki-clad figures could be discerned, drawn up in rigid lines. At
frequent intervals a part of the line would break and disperse as
the superbly disciplined troops were ordered to take their places in
such of the boats that were still available.

"Makes you feel proud that you are British, sir," remarked the
gunner. "Steady as a rock, those chaps, and not much of a chance for
a boat in that turmoil. Shall we drop to lee'ard of her, sir?"

Before the sub could reply two dark grey poles showed upon the crest
of a wave. A moment later the long sinister hull of the U-boat that
had dealt the transport the mortal blow shook itself clear of the
water.

Swept from end to end by the waves the U-boat's deck looked as if it
afforded no foothold for any of her crew, but presently the
conning-tower hatchway was thrown open, and half a dozen figures in
black oilskins and seaboots made their way for'ard, hanging
tenaciously the while to a wire lifeline.

Upon the platform surrounding the conning tower a tall figure,
evidently that of the kapitan-leutnant, stood watching the
approaching felucca through his binoculars. Cautiously Farrar
removed his cap and crouched behind the plunging bulwarks, the while
returning the compliment by keeping the U-boat under observation by
means of his glasses.

The submarine's for'ard gun was raised, in spite of the fact that
the gunners were frequently waist-deep in the surging waves. A flash
and a shell hurtled through the air within a hundred yards of the
bows of the "Georgeos Nikolaos."

It was an inhuman and peremptory order for the felucca to keep her
distance, and not to attempt the rescue of any of the torpedoed
transport's troops or crew.

Wishing to reduce the range and also to enable both guns to be
brought to bear upon the unhallowed pirate craft, the sub ordered
the helm to be starboarded, until the U-boat bore slightly ahead of
the felucca's beam.

"Ready there?" shouted the young officer.

"Ay, ay, sir," replied the quietly confident gunlayers.

"By heavens, sir!" exclaimed the warrant officer. "Look at that--the
murderous swine."

For the U-boat, not content with its work of torpedoing the
transport, had opened fire upon one of the lifeboats that had pulled
away from the lee side of the sinking ship. Having given the felucca
orders to stand off, the Huns paid no more attention to the
apparently harmless Greek trader until their cold-blooded equanimity
was rudely disturbed.

With a deafening crash both quick-firers spoke simultaneously from
the felucca's deck. Before the thin bluish haze of burnt cordite was
dispersed, the shells had "got home." One, striking the U-boat's
gun, swept it and its crew into nothingness; the other, bursting
against the base of the conning tower, tore a huge rent in the steel
deck, swept away the periscopes, and blistered the grey paint into a
hideous yellow daub. When the smoke of the exploding missile had
disappeared, the U-boat's kapitan-leutnant was observed gripping the
shattered guard-rail with one hand, the other pressed to his side.

"We've got her!" exclaimed the delighted Mr. Gripper. "She can't
dive, and these seas will fill her."

The German captain was evidently of the same opinion. Through his
binoculars the sub saw that he was moving his jaw, as if shouting
orders or questions to those of his crew in the interior of the
pirate craft. Then a seaman's head and shoulders appeared through
the hatchway, and a white flag fluttered in the strong wind.

"Napoo, laddie!" ejaculated the gunner. "You've all gone and done it
this time."

He looked to Farrar for confirmation. The sub shook his head.

"Cease fire!" he ordered.

For the first time Mr. Gripper's mahogany-hued face expressed
dissatisfaction at his youthful skipper's decision.

"I'd have blown the beasts to Hades!" he muttered.

"Down foresail!" ordered the sub. "Start her up."

Promptly the lateen yard was lowered on deck and the powerful motor
began to throb and emit noisy explosions from her exhaust. Had the
felucca to attempt to make dead to windward it was doubtful whether
the engine would be of sufficient horse power to enable her to
battle successfully against the force of wind and waves; but by
running before the elements the "Georgeos Nikolaos" was adroitly
manoeuvred close under the bow of the transport.

To leeward of the huge vessel there was comparatively still water.
Unhesitatingly the felucca's helmsman placed her alongside the still
crowded ship.

"Steady, lads!" shouted a strong voice without a tremor in the
ringing tones. "Number Four platoon--dismiss."

Amidst the cheers of their comrades the sixty-odd men of the platoon
scrambled, leapt, or swung themselves to the felucca's
decks--bootless, coatless, and wearing lifebelts. The rescued troops
were quickly sent below and the hatches battened down.

"Room for another thirty!" shouted the sub.

The required number fell out, the thirty-first patting the last of
the party on the back and wishing him good luck. Then, deeply laden,
the "Georgeos Nikolaos" backed away from the transport to the
accompaniment of three ringing cheers from the two hundred-odd
officers and men who, emulating the example of the "Birkenhead,"
remained drawn up upon the boat-deck.

"We'll try to keep in touch with the boats," declared Farrar,
indicating the five deeply laden lifeboats that were drifting
rapidly to lee'ard. "No sign of the U-boat?"

"Saw her founder just as we were rounding-to, sir," replied Sampson.
"I guess there aren't any survivors from her," he added with grim
satisfaction.

Presently the sub glanced aft. As he did so he gave a low whistle of
surprise.

"By Jove, Mr. Gripper!" he exclaimed. "Look at the ensign."

He pointed to the Greek flag. In the excitement of the strafing
operations it had not been struck and replaced by the White Ensign.

The warrant officer shrugged his shoulders.

"A mere detail, sir," he remarked.

"Fritz isn't in a position to protest," continued the sub, with
ominous truth. "Main point is we've done the job neatly this time."

No further remark was made on the matter. Farrar was thinking now of
other things--of the doomed transport with the band of heroes on her
decks. Unable to do more to save life, for the lives of those
already rescued would thereby be endangered, the officers and crew
of the felucca were unwilling spectators of the last throes of the
torpedoed vessel.

With the propeller running under the action of the partly throttled
motor, the "Georgeos Nikolaos" was just able to keep pace with the
far-flung line of boats. The latter, unable to run before the
vicious seas and equally helpless to make headway, were riding to
hastily constructed sea-anchors, which had the effect of keeping the
boats' heads on to the waves.

On the transport men were hard at work knocking together rapidly
made rafts--a frail chance, for even if the planks escaped being
entangled in the rigging of the sinking ship, there was the terrific
sea to contend with.

"She'll be gone in another quarter of an hour," declared Mr.
Gripper.

The warrant officer stood on the weather bulwarks and, with one hand
holding firmly the tautened shrouds, levelled his glass at a point
on the horizon.

"What is it, Mr. Gripper?" asked the sub.

The gunner did not immediately reply. Frequently enveloped in spray
he hung on rigidly, gazing the while with a doubtful expression on
his weather-beaten face.

Then he leapt down.

"It's all right, sir," he announced. "There's a destroyer making for
her. She'll have to be quick about it, though," he added under his
breath.




CHAPTER XXV

HOLCOMBE'S SURPRISE


"S.O.S. MESSAGE through, sir," reported the yeoman of signals of
H.M.S. "Antipas," saluting, as he handed Lieutenant-Commander Aubyn
a signal pad.

The skipper took the proffered message, scrawled in indelible ink
upon a flimsy sheet of damp paper, for the destroyer was making
heavy weather of it.

Without a word Aubyn passed the message on to Holcombe, who was with
his chief on the destroyer's bridge. The sub read the momentous
appeal:

"Transport 'Epicyclic' torpedoed, sinking. Lat. 34° 20' 30" N.,
Long. 25° 15' 10" E."

"Reply, 'Am proceeding to your assistance,'" ordered the
lieutenant-commander, addressing the waiting signalman. "South 50
East, quartermaster," he added, as he passed the steam
steering-wheel on his way to the chart-room.

Aubyn could have delegated the setting out of the new course to his
sub-lieutenant, but conscientious in all matters he himself took
parallel rulers and dividers and laid off the compass course that
would bring the "Antipas" to the position indicated by the sinking
"Epicyclic."

"Not so dusty, eh?" he remarked to Holcombe, when the result was
obtained. The preliminary direction he had given to the
quartermaster was only half a degree out. "Seventy-two miles: two
and a half hours' run. Let's hope we'll be in time."

A shadow fell athwart the chart. Both officers turned to find the
barefooted signalman standing at the open door.

"Can't get no reply from 'er, sir," he reported.

"H'm! Dynamos out of action, I suppose," observed Aubyn. "Looks bad.
All right; carry on."

The "Antipas" was cleared for action. Stanchion rails were stowed;
only life-lines, led fore and aft, serving to prevent men from being
washed overboard. Everything on deck was battened down, for in spite
of her high fo'c'sle and exaggerated "flare" in her bows the
destroyer was shipping green seas right over her bridge, the water
almost instantly changing into clouds of vapour as it drifted aft
against the red-hot funnels. The destroyer had just entered the
limits of the path of the storm experienced by the "Georgeos
Nikolaos," and on her new course she was making for the centre of
the severe atmospheric disturbances. In really dirty weather a craft
of this type is one of the most undesirable that can be imagined,
for possessing great length to a comparatively small beam she drives
through rather than over the waves, while to the vibrations imparted
by the pulsations of the powerful engines must be added the
disconcerting hogging and sagging of the lightly built hull.

On her errand of succour the "Antipas" was running great risks,
apart from the danger of carrying on at full speed through the gale.
In the rain storms there were chances of colliding with other
vessels summoned by the general wireless S.O.S., while the U-boat
that had dealt the transport the fatal blow might be lying in wait,
possibly with others, to repeat her exploit by torpedoing some of
the rescuing ships. Yet, in spite of the triple risk, Aubyn, like
every one of his brother officers of the Senior Service, had not the
slightest hesitation in proceeding to the scene of the disaster.

There were soon indications that others of His Majesty's ships had
picked up the "Epicyclic's" S.O.S. Wireless messages in code were
picked up, which, by reference to the secret code book, were found
to have been sent from the destroyers "Antigone" and "Amaxila,"
although both were several miles farther from the scene than was the
"Antipas."

At about one bell in the forenoon watch the look out reported a
tramp bearing two miles on the destroyer's port bow. Ordered to
"make her number" the vessel proved to be the s.s. "Andromeda" of
Avonmouth, bound for Damietta.

"Very good," commented Holcombe, who was officer of the watch at the
time. "Signal to her that a hostile submarine has been reported in
latitude and longitude so and so "--giving the position indicated in
the "Epicyclic's" message for aid. "We don't want to spend the whole
day in picking up torpedoed crews."

A quarter of an hour later the "Andromeda" was out of sight, and the
"Antipas," swept again and again by the terrific seas, held swiftly
on her course.

"We'll have a deuce of a job, Mr. Holcombe," remarked Aubyn, as he
rejoined his junior officer on the bridge. "Unless the weather
moderates it will be a touch-and-go business to run alongside--that
is, if the transport's still afloat."

"She may be able to pump oil overboard," suggested Holcombe.
"According to----"

"Periscope on the port bow!" shouted a voice that, although
stentorian in volume, was only just audible above the howling of the
wind and the hiss of the flying spray.

The gunlayer of the for'ard quick-firer was quick on the mark, but a
peremptory order caused him to relax his hold on the trigger of the
firing-pistol. Only just in time did Aubyn detect the real nature of
the supposed periscope: a portion of a foretop mast that, weighted
down, was floating in a vertical position.

It was one of those common instances that would bring a volley of
chaff upon the head of the mistaken look-out man, but it is also an
indication of the effect of the mental and physical strain that
arises from constant expectation of sighting the outward and visible
sign of the modern pirate.

"No deception this time, sir," observed Holcombe, as a burst of
brilliant sunshine lit up the sinking transport, which had hitherto
been hidden in the scud.

"We're in time, I fancy," said the lieutenant-commander, "Fritz and
other trivialities permitting."

With the guns' crews keeping a sharp look out for U-boats the
"Antipas" circled completely round the "Epicyclic," pumping out
gallons of crude oil as she passed to windward. Then, seizing her
opportunity, the destroyer ran alongside the sinking ship on the
leeward side--Aubyn had had to do this manoeuvre several times
before, and was getting expert--and was made fast while the
remaining Tommies and the officers and crew gained safety on the
destroyer's deck.

It was an anxious ten minutes, for in spite of flexible "springs"
and huge "pudding fenders" the lightly built "Antipas" was grinding
heavily against the heeling sides of the transport, the port bilge
keel of which was momentarily above the oil-quelled waves; but with
no other casualty amongst the destroyer's crew beyond a petty
officer having received a nasty "nip," the "Antipas" drew clear.

Before she had put two cables' lengths between her and the transport
the latter's bows rose higher in the air, at an angle of sixty
degrees. To the accompaniment of a super-cloud of smoke and steam
the torpedoed vessel glided, rather than plunged, beneath the
surface of the iridescent water.

The bark of the after four-inch quick-firer instantly diverted
Sub-Lieutenant Holcombe's attention from the impressive spectacle of
the sinking ship and the comparatively insignificant sight, though
none the less to be ignored, of a torpedo cleaving through the
waves. The missile had apparently been badly adjusted, for it shot
clear of the water as it passed the trough of the heavy seas.
Nevertheless it was heading straight for the bows of the rapidly
moving destroyer; and had the mutual speed and direction been
maintained, the weapon would have struck the "Antipas" amidships.

The gunlayer had been exceptionally smart on his sights. Even as the
lively helmed destroyer swung round, listing heavily as she did so,
a shell struck the water directly in front of the locomotive weapon.
A tremendous waterspout and a deafening crash announced that a
Schwartzkopff torpedo had ended its career in a manner not
anticipated by its Hunnish makers or the Black Cross pirates on
board the lurking U-boat.

For the next twenty minutes that U-boat had a most unpleasant time,
for in spite of the heavy seas the alert destroyer "cut rings" round
the spot where the periscopes were seen in the act of disappearing.
Depth charges were brought into action, but whether the powerful
explosions strained the submarine's hull and caused her to sink for
good and all, or whether she succeeded in evading the terrible
menace, neither Aubyn nor his officers and crew were able to
determine. In any case, Fritz had received such a severe mental
shock that the U-boat made no further attempt to torpedo the
destroyer and the heavy load of rescued men.

"What's that craft doing, sir, I wonder?" asked Holcombe, calling
his skipper's attention to a two-sticked sailing vessel lying head
to wind at about four miles to leeward.

"Dunno; but we'll soon find out," was the laconic rejoinder, for
Aubyn was perfectly aware that U-boats have been known to receive
information from supposedly harmless neutrals.

The "Antipas" turned, steadied on her helm, and bore down upon the
suspicious craft. On decreasing the distance the officers discovered
by means of their binoculars that she was a felucca flying the Greek
mercantile flag, while strung out to leeward of her were four of the
transport's boats.

"She's been on the rescuing stunt, sir," observed Holcombe.

"P'r'aps," added Aubyn. "And when there's nothing about she'll start
sinking them. Greek, yes--perhaps. More than likely a Levantine in
German or Turkish pay."

Asked by International Code to make her number, the felucca ran up a
hoist of four flags. Reference to the signal book did not elucidate
matters, for the letters comprising the vessel's "number" did not
appear upon the latest edition of the code book.

"Her deck is simply crowded," reported Holcombe.

"Rescued Tommies," explained the lieutenant commander.

"And men in naval rig, as well as a sprinkling of
picturesque-looking villains, sir," continued the sub. "Unless I'm
much mistaken she's carrying a couple of guns."

Visions of the prospect of capturing an armed raider, albeit a small
one, flashed across Aubyn's mind. At this pleasurable anticipation
he displayed his white teeth in a broad smile.

"Signal her to heave to until the weather moderates," he ordered.
"The 'Antigone' and 'Amaxila' can't be so very far off. When they
put in an appearance we can board the felucca while they buzz round
for Fritzes."

"Those fellows in the boats are having a rough time," remarked
Holcombe. "They're riding to sea-anchors, but there's plenty of
water breaking inboard."

"Yes," agreed the skipper of the "Antipas," who knew by experience
what life on board an open boat in a heavy sea meant. "But for the
present we can do nothing. A boat load of landlubbers trying to
board us with this tumble on would stand as much chance as a cripple
trying to climb Nelson's Monument."

Maintaining an erratic zigzag course the "Antipas" steamed round and
round the felucca and the boats, until with the arrival of her
sister ships and the subsidence of the gale she was able to make a
closer acquaintance with the suspicious-looking Greek.

At three bells in the first dog watch a large vessel was sighted
bearing down in the direction of the destroyers. The "Antigone"
steamed off to offer protection against U-boat attack, while the new
arrival, which proved to be the empty transport "Hopalong,"
manoeuvred to windward of the boats in order to receive the
survivors of the ill-fated "Epicyclic."

With the rapidly subsiding sea this was done without delay or loss.
The "Antipas" then discharged her complement of supernumeraries,
while the felucca was ordered by signal to run under the
"Hopalong's" lee.

"You might board her, Mr. Holcombe," suggested Lieutenant-Commander
Aubyn. "See that her papers are all in order, and find out what
those guns mean."

"I may have been mistaken, sir," said the sub, giving the felucca
another glance through his glasses; "but I'm hanged if I can see any
signs of guns now."

"All the more reason for a strict search," rejoined the skipper
grimly. "Once when I was on examination service in the North Sea I
came across a short-calibred quick-firer stored in the case of a
grand piano. Quite a bit of luck on my part, though," he added
modestly. "The thing was in the main saloon of a supposedly
Norwegian passenger and cargo boat. There was a bit of a lop
on--almost as bad as it was this morning--and one of my men, an
R.N.V.R. who hadn't quite found his sea legs, was shot clean on top
of the blessed piano, rifle and all. I apologised to the master for
the damage done, but the old chap seemed mighty particular to let
the matter drop--too mighty particular I thought. So I had the top
lifted--deuce of a job, for the old rascal of a skipper swore he'd
lost the key. Nothing much doing at first sight--only wires and
hammers and all that sort of fakelorum appertaining to pianos; but
sure enough, my testing rod rasped against metal that was a jolly
sight too solid even for an iron-framed 'Grand.' Yes, it was all U P
with the ship. No more a Norwegian than I was, but a commerce raider
two days out of Swinemunde. So you see, Mr. Holcombe, it's up to us
to 'frustrate their knavish tricks.' It's our job; but as to
'confounding their politics,' well----"

The lieutenant-commander shrugged his broad shoulders. Like many
another naval and military officer he had about as much admiration
for the British diplomatic service as the office cat.

As soon as the felucca ran alongside the "Hopalong" Holcombe took
the destroyer's whaler and an armed crew and boarded the object of
his suspicions.

The felucca's deck was now almost deserted. The last of the rescued
Tommies had been taken on board the transport. There were no men in
naval uniform; only a handful of moustachioed Greeks.

"Where's your capitano?" demanded Holcombe, trusting that some of
the crew spoke English.

The only reply he received was a prodigious grin and a most
exasperating wink.

"Dash you, you fat-headed rascal!" exclaimed the incensed sub; "do
you or do you not understand? Are you the captain? Where are your
papers?"

Again a stolid movement of the fellow's left eye was the sole
response.

"Cast off there!" ordered Holcombe. "Hanged if I won't have you
taken in tow and introduce you to the Prize Court at Valetta."

Some of the whaler's crew cast off the hawser by which the "Georgeos
Nikolaos" was made fast alongside the "Hopalong." The transport,
with a destroyer in attendance, shaped a course to the nor'west,
while the felucca was left rolling in the long swell.

Meanwhile Holcombe, ordering the Greek master to stand back--which
he did with considerable alacrity to avoid the butt-end of one of
the bluejackets' rifle descending upon his toes--proceeded to make a
thorough overhaul of the presumed prize.

"Thought so!" he exclaimed triumphantly, as one of the seamen threw
back the awning over the boat amidships, revealing a quick-firer. "A
German gun, by the powers! Good enough, Knight. Clap those
dirty-looking rascals under hatches. Flannigan," he continued,
addressing a signalman, "semaphore the 'Antipas' and report that we
have discovered the prize to be armed with a German-made
quick-firer."

"Two, sir," corrected the signalman. "There's one on disappearing
mountings up for'ard."

"Better still," chortled the hugely delighted sub. "Now, you
blighters, you're under escort--can do? Savvy? Comprenez? Verstehen
Sie das? Oh, chuck it with that infernal wink of yours!"

The Greek amiably complied with Holcombe's rather ungracious
request, but promptly raised one eyebrow, which exasperated the sub
still more. But just at that moment the fellow's facial contortions
proved too much for the adhesibility of his moustache, which fell to
the deck, revealing the features of Sub-Lieutenant Nigel Farrar.

"Slogger, you--you--you----!" exclaimed the astounded Holcombe.
"What on earth are you doing in this rotten rig-out?"

"Allow me to correct you on a few points, old bird," said Farrar.
"In the first place, 'on earth' is hardly appropriate; secondly, my
get-up could not be so very rotten, for it got the weather side of
you."

"Well, carry on," rejoined Holcombe tentatively.

"There's little to tell," replied his chum. "We are on a strafing
stunt. Bagged two Fritzes already. Wonder the skipper of the
'Epicyclic' hadn't given the show away."

This certainly was a puzzler. Later inquiries showed, however, that
the officers and crew of the torpedoed transport were so occupied
with the task of getting the boat away and anxious concerning the
presence of the U-boat that they had failed to notice the approach
of the little felucca. Nor did they attribute the strafing of the
submarine to her agency, putting down the explosion to internal
causes.

"Your independent cruise was kept very much in the dark as far as we
were concerned," said Holcombe. "We hadn't the faintest inkling of
it when we left Malta."

"Let's hope the secret won't out a while--at least, as far as Fritz
is concerned," rejoined Farrar. "We're just beginning to like the
job."




CHAPTER XXVI

A FIGHT TO A FINISH


IT was two days later that the "Georgeos Nikolaos" ran under the
stern of the "Andromeda," and the astute von Loringhoven had
detected the _raison d'être_ of what appeared to be at first sight a
nondescript Mediterranean trading felucca. In happy ignorance of
what had occurred the "Georgeos Nikolaos" carried on with a fair
amount of success, never turning the tables on a U-boat until she
was practically certain of making a proper job of the business.

On the thirteenth day after leaving Malta the felucca turned her
bows westward. Provisions were showing signs of running short, while
the crowded state of the little craft made it undesirable to keep
the seas for any great length of time.

With a following wind the "Georgeos Nikolaos," carrying all sail,
footed it merrily. Provided the breeze held, another five days ought
to see her safely in the Grand Harbour.

"We haven't done so badly, sir," remarked Mr. Gripper, pointing to
the heads of five brightly polished brass nails which were driven
into the tiller, each nail representing a "bag." "Although I says it
as shouldn't, it's something to be proud of. We may get another
Fritz to-day. It's our thirteenth day out, and thirteen is my lucky
number."

"Is that so?" asked the sub, not with any particular display of
enthusiasm. It was the mere idea of being able to talk that prompted
him, for beyond a few necessary orders Farrar hardly exchanged a
word when the warrant officer was not on deck, for the medico, being
of a very retiring nature, spent most of his leisure hours below,
"swotting" at scientific books.

"Fact," declared the gunner vehemently, as if wishing to push home
an unacceptable truth. "I entered Greenwich School on the
thirteenth, an' got my warrant rank thirteen years later. It was
November 13th, two years ago, when we torpedoed the German light
cruiser 'Pelikan,' and my share of the prize money, awarded thirteen
months later, was £130, which is ten times thirteen. So I'm in hopes
of pulling off something to-day."

"Let's hope so," added Farrar.

"Hope so, sir? It's more than a question of hope. There, didn't I
say so?" he added as a seaman raised the shout of "Submarine on the
starboard bow, sir."

There was no doubt about it. Quite four miles away, but showing up
clearly in the slanting rays of the rising sun, was a large
submarine running on the surface, although the curvature of the sea
permitted only the conning tower to be visible.

"She's heading this way--straight for us," said the gunner
gleefully. "Wonder if it's her thirteenth day?"

"Up helm, quartermaster," ordered the sub. "We'll have to lure her a
bit."

The felucca was turned until she lay on a northerly course. Almost
immediately afterwards the U-boat altered helm, until she was
running in the same direction as her prey, but without making any
effort to decrease the distance.

"Hanged if I like that at all," soliloquised Nigel. "Looks as if she
smells a rat. 'Bout ship," he shouted. "Down helm."

The "Georgeos Nikolaos" tacked and lay close hauled in exactly the
opposite direction to the course she had previously taken. The
U-boat followed suit, but still refused to close. She flew no
ensign, hoisted no signal--merely "marking time" on the felucca.

"What's she fooling about like that for, sir?" asked Mr. Gripper.
"Is she funking it?"

"It's my belief that she's suspicious of something," replied the
sub. "She's waiting till the sun is a bit higher. At present it's
right behind us. Shouldn't be surprised if she started to shell us."

"It's a tidy range for our quick-firers," remarked the gunner
dubiously. "Ten thousand yards; wonder if her guns are effective at
that distance?"

A moment later the screech of a projectile was heard overhead,
followed by the detonation of the U-boat's gun. The shell, striking
the sea nearly a thousand yards beyond the felucca, ricochetted four
or five times before finally disappearing beneath the surface.

The gunner gave a low whistle.

"That's some shot, Mr. Gripper," observed Nigel.

"It is, sir," agreed the warrant officer. "A high velocity and a
flat trajectory. Did you notice something very peculiar? The
projectile passed over us before we heard the report."

"Meaning that the velocity of the shell is greater than that of the
sound."

"That's it, sir. Something new as far as U-boats' guns go."

Having made a trial shot the submarine fired again. This time the
shell fell short, ricochetting and passing within fifty yards of the
felucca's stern.

"She means business," declared Farrar. "There's only one thing to be
done. Since she can do a good sixteen knots we can't give her the
slip, so we'll try and close. Hoist the ensign. Bow gun open fire."

Sighted at the maximum elevation the felucca's four-inch replied to
the U-boat's challenge. The projectile fell hopelessly short. Again
the quick-firer spoke, with similar results. The gun was decidedly
outranged.

For nearly twenty minutes the U-boat withheld her fire, maintaining
her distance, and at the same time describing an arc of a circle in
order to take advantage of the position of the sun. An overfed
bulldog might just as well attempt to chase a greyhound as the
felucca to close with her opponent.

With the White Ensign streaming proudly in the breeze the "Georgeos
Nikolaos" maintained her vain attempt, firing with both guns at
regular intervals. She was in a tight corner, for when the Hun
settled down to work the result would be a foregone conclusion,
unless aid from another source were speedily forthcoming. Already
the felucca's wireless was sending out messages, but no responsive
crackling came in reply to her call. The U-boat was jamming the
wireless waves by means of her more powerful installation.

The men, although fully acquainted with their hazardous position,
were in high spirits, laughing and chaffing as they lay prone upon
the deck, for with the exception of the bluejackets serving the
quick-firers they had been ordered to take the frail shelter
provided by the felucca's bulwarks.

The "Georgeos Nikolaos" was now bows on to her opponent. Although
unable to gain on the U-boat she nevertheless presented a smaller
target than had she exposed the whole of her broadside. Under sail
and power she was doing a good eleven knots, but it was practically
useless compared with the submarine's sixteen or seventeen.

Suddenly a cloud of black smoke rose from the U-boat's deck. When it
dispersed under the force of the stiff breeze Fritz was no longer to
be seen.

"She's gone an' busted!" shouted an exuberant bluejacket, and the
men gave vent to a cheer. Their satisfaction increased when, nearly
half an hour later, the felucca sailed through a large patch of oil
in the midst of which were floating some charred pieces of wood and
several canvas-covered caps.

"A sixth nail in the tiller, sir," remarked the warrant officer.
"Our thirteenth day out, you'll remember."

"Not so sure about it, Mr. Gripper," objected the sub. "In any case,
we didn't strafe her. Ah! I thought so," he exclaimed, as the twin
periscopes of the U-boat appeared at a distance of less than five
hundred yards in the felucca's wake. "Wing her, Sampson."

The submarine was playing with her prey like a cat with a mouse.
Under the camouflage of the clouds of smoke she dived, to
reappear--this time astern of the "Georgeos Nikolaos."

Smart as was the gunlayer of the after quick-firer, the U-boat was
smarter. Before the weapon could be swung round and the sights
adjusted she had disappeared again.

When after a considerable interval the U-boat broke surface she was
well out of range of the felucca's guns, although quite within a
striking distance with her own, for a shell burst within a stone's
throw of the British craft's quarter, the flying fragments knocking
splinters from the bulwarks and holing the sails in twenty different
places.

At Mr. Gripper's suggestion a tar-barrel with a long pole wedged
into the bung-hole, and so weighted that the pole floated
vertically, was quickly rigged up and thrown overboard. For a while
it served its purpose, for the pursuing U-boat, spotting what
appeared to be a periscope, sheered off until she had wasted half a
dozen shells before blowing the barrel into a thousand fragments.

Then, her patience being exhausted, the U-boat set to work in grim
earnest to pulverise the felucca. Completely outranged and
outclassed, the "Georgeos Nikolaos" nevertheless put up a gallant
fight, although none of her shells went within half a mile of her
foe.

A direct hit brought both masts down, littering her deck with
splinters, shouldering canvas, and a tangle of ropes. The ponderous
lateen yards trailing over the side set up a drag against which the
motor was powerless, and describing a quadrant of a circle the
felucca lost way, broadside on to her assailant.

Already several of the men were stricken to the deck, some slain
outright, others writhing in agony from severe splinter wounds. Amid
the flying fragments of shells the youthful doctor set to work to
render first aid, coolly heedless of the fact that the felucca was
doomed.

The "Georgeos Nikolaos" was sinking. She was also on fire for'ard.
The bow gun, with its disappearing mountings, had "disappeared" in a
most unorthodox way, having been completely blown overboard,
together with the men who served it. Yet not a soul on board gave
one thought of surrendering. Although with few exceptions members of
the auxiliary service, they were fully imbued with the glorious
traditions of the White Ensign. So long as a plank remained under
their feet, they were grimly determined to fight on, working the
remaining gun in stubborn defiance, yet the while conscious that
they were firing for firing's sake since the comparatively puny
weapon was innocuous to the foe.

A fragment of shell struck down the gunner as he stood at Farrar's
side. It was a dangerous wound, but beyond an ashy greyness of his
features the staunch warrant officer gave no indication of his
physical pain.

"Dash it all!" he exclaimed. "My luck's changed this trip--and the
thirteenth too!" and straightway relapsed into unconsciousness.

A steady flow of warm fluid trickled over the sub's right eyebrow.
Under the impression that it was perspiration he mopped it with his
handkerchief, to discover that blood was running from a clean cut on
his forehead. In the excitement he had failed to experience any
sensation of pain when a splinter of flying metal struck him a
glancing blow.

At length the U-boat ceased firing, for the felucca's after gun had
been put out of action by a direct hit upon the open breech-block
that had destroyed the intercepted thread-locking arrangement. Yet
it seemed rather unusual for a Hun, getting the best of things, to
cease fire as long as there was anything in the nature of a target
to aim at.

One glance showed the sub the reason. The White Ensign had been
blown away.

Another ensign was soon forthcoming. With one hand Farrar lashed it
to a boat-hook staff, and defiantly displayed the emblem of freedom.

Fritz's reply was not long in coming. A shell struck the "Georgeos
Nikolaos" just abaft the stump of the foremast, playing havoc on
board and tearing a hole 'twixt wind and water. It was the _coup de
grâce_. Half stifled by the pungent fumes of the T.N.T., his vision
affected by the noxious smoke, the sub found himself striking
out in a turmoil of broken water amidst a dozen or more of his
devoted crew.

As the smoke dispersed, drifting in eddying clouds far to leeward,
Farrar was able to obtain a clearer view of his surroundings. All
around, the surface of the agitated sea was thick with pieces of
timber of various sizes and shapes. Planks from the still-sinking
vessel were shooting upwards through the air with terrific violence,
to fall again and strike the water with resounding smacks. Twenty
yards away floated the felucca's boat that had been wrenched from
its securing lashings as the craft sank. It was keel upwards, a
portion of the stern had been shattered, and there were other
injuries from shell fire. No longer seaworthy the boat still served
a purpose by supporting four or five bluejackets who were clinging
to her bilge-keels.

A little farther away was the large part of the foremast with the
lateen yards, and some of the scorched canvas still secured. Several
men were already astride the spar, while others, some pushing planks
before them, were making for the frail place of safety.

"Here's our skipper, lads!" shouted Sampson, who, with a stained
bandage round his forehead and another encircling his left arm above
the elbow, was astride the spar and busily engaged in securing
planks to form a rough-and-ready raft. "Come on, sir; there's plenty
of room in the stalls."

"I'm rather late for the performance, I think," replied the sub,
recognising that cheerfulness would go a long way to "winning
through."

"Not a bit of it, sir," replied the gun-layer. "The blessed
overture's only just finished. Show that gentleman to one of the
front seats, please. Sorry the programmes ain't printed, sir; put it
down to shortage of paper."

Assisted by a couple of seamen, for the sub's strength had been
heavily taxed, Farrar was lifted on to a long plank lashed between
the yard and the broken foremast. Of the felucca's crew there were
about twenty survivors, all showing visible tokens of the merciless
shell fire. Mr. Gripper, still unconscious, was lying on the highest
part of the raft; even there the waves were continually breaking
over him, requiring the constant attention of a couple of hands to
prevent his being washed into the sea. The surgeon-probationer was
missing, inquiry eliciting the information that he was attending a
badly wounded man in the main hold when the felucca foundered.

The survivors were, for the most part, boisterously cheerful--almost
idiotically so. The disaster gave them a chance of breaking away
from the restraint of shipboard, and like a crowd of children
unexpectedly let out of school, they joked, chaffed each other, and
even engaged in horseplay as they worked to make good their crazy
raft.

Meanwhile the U-boat was standing by at a distance of a little less
than a mile. Her deck was crowded, the crew coming up from below to
gloat over their glorious victory, while on the conning-tower
platform a group of officers was intently watching by means of
telescopes and binoculars the efforts of the felucca's survivors.

This was practically the only part of the affair that riled the
British bluejackets. They had groused when the U-boat had refused to
throw away the advantage of her superior ordnance; they had taken
their gruelling like true specimens of the bulldog breed; they
realised that it was quite playing the game for the Hun to strafe
them and "get her own back" on the armed felucca for her activity in
ridding the sea of a few pirate craft. But the survivors objected
strongly to Fritz standing by and jeering at their sorry plight.
According to British notions it wasn't playing the game. Abandon the
helpless men to their fate--that is expected of the Hun--but to
remain within sight and crow over them, was almost as bad as if the
U-boat had kept on firing until the massacre was completed.

"The best part of the day is before us, lads!" exclaimed their
youthful skipper, although the tone of his voice sounded strained
and unnatural. Now that the heat of the fight was over he was
feeling the effects of his wound. There had been comparatively
little loss of blood, and this had the effect of increasing the pain
of the contusion, while the tightly adjusted bandage seemed to cut
into his forehead.

"That's so, sir," replied one of the men. "But it's a long, long way
to Malta. Guess we're making half a knot, sir."

"Wot's Fritz up to now?" inquired another, pointing in the direction
of the hostile submarine.

The U-boat was forging ahead straight for the raft. Most of her crew
were below, the others, save for the men at the for'ard quick-firer,
were mustered aft.

At a cable's length away from the handful of survivors from the
"Georgeos Nikolaos" she reversed engines, losing way within easy
hailing distance. There were three officers on the navigating
platform--a short man in the uniform of a kapitan-leutnant, an
unter-leutnant, and a third in a great-coat, but showing no badges
of rank.

"Where have I seen that josser before?" pondered Farrar. "By Jove, I
have it! Von Loringhoven!"

The recognition was mutual, for the supernumerary officer pointed to
the British sublieutenant and spoke a few rapid sentences to the
kapitan-leutnant of the U-boat.

The latter turned and rapped out an order in hasty, guttural tones.
With the utmost alacrity half a dozen hands unfolded a canvas boat,
and launched her from the U-boat's deck. Manned by two seamen and
the unter-leutnant, who held the tiller in one hand and
ostentatiously brandished an automatic pistol in the other, the boat
pulled towards the raft.

"You prisoner are," announced the German officer, addressing the
sub. "Mit me you come must in dis boat."

"Let's fight it to a finish, sir," whispered Sampson. "We can do in
this brass-bound swanker, and I reckon with his pistol I'll be able
to score off those grinning Fritzes before we're knocked out."

Farrar shook his head.

"It's no use offering further resistance, Sampson," he replied.
"They evidently require me rather badly. I don't want the hands to
make any demonstration to upset the Huns. They seem pretty bad
tempered as it is."

"Haste make!" snarled the unter-leutnant.

"Good luck, men!" exclaimed the sub. "I hope to see you again soon."

He stepped into the boat and was taken alongside the submarine.
Under the direction of the unter-leutnant, the prisoner was removed
below, hatches were battened down, and the disappearing guns lowered
into the water-tight house. Judging by the kapitan-leutnant's
excited orders the U-boat was in a hurry. She dived steeply and was
lost to sight.

For some moments the handful of bluejackets on the raft gazed at the
swirl that marked the spot where the U-boat had disappeared; then
Sampson gave vent to a loud shout.

"Hurrah, my hearties!" he announced. "Here comes a destroyer."

The men cheered, but not with their customary vigour, for they
remembered that they had lost their young commanding officer.

"An' another five minutes would have made all the difference," said
one sententiously.

"No wonder Fritz was in a bloomin' hurry."




CHAPTER XXVII

IN THE HANDS OF THE HUNS


NIGEL FARRAR'S state of mind was far from being composed when he
found himself under lock and key in the interior of the submerged
U-boat. Apart from the physical pain and exhaustion, and the
unaccustomed air in the confined space making his head throb with
redoubled violence, his nerves were greatly overstrung. That was
doubtless accentuated by his wound, but he tried to pull himself
together like a true British sailor.

There was the disconcerting thought, too, that the U-boat stood a
great chance of being strafed by the British destroyer,
patrol-boats, and aircraft; and with a full knowledge of the
terribly efficient means at submarine hunters' command the prospect
was far from alluring. It was one thing, he reflected grimly, to
chase a Fritz and blow him out of existence with depth charges;
another to be most unwillingly in his company when the deed was
done.

More than once the selfish wish flashed across his mind that he had
taken the gun-layer's advice and fought it out. Better to die
fighting than to perish miserably like a rat in a trap.... But it
was for the best, after all... his men--comrades all--were still
free, although their position a hazardous one.

Tormented by doubts and fears the sub spent a bad two hours, nor was
the ordeal over when the door of his prison was thrown open and an
electric torch flashed full in his face.

Dazzled by the sudden transition from pitch-black darkness to the
blinding glare, Farrar stood bolt upright and stared with unseeing
eyes at the Hun behind the light. His spell of mental depression had
passed, and although his head was racked with pain, he faced his
captor with a calm resolution that surprised himself.

He was under the mistaken impression that von Loringhoven confronted
him, although on second thoughts he reflected that the Hun would
hardly go to the inconvenience of interviewing the prisoner in such
uncomfortable conditions. Nor could he satisfactorily account for
any desire on his part for the Hun to see him, yet he could not
banish the impression that it was von Loringhoven and none other.

Except for a brief interval when the kapitan-leutnant of the lost U
254 had been marched under escort from the "Antipas" to temporary
quarters in Trecurnow, Farrar had never to his knowledge set eyes on
him until a few hours previously, but von Loringhoven and the sub
were alike in one respect--they had good memories for faces.

"Dis way; come quick!" exclaimed the German with the torch. The sub
recognised the voice as that of the unter-leutnant.

In his still saturated, scorched, and badly torn uniform, and with a
blood-stained bandage round his head, Nigel presented a forlorn
appearance when he was unceremoniously ushered into the presence of
von Loringhoven and the kapitan-leutnant of the U-boat in a fairly
spacious cabin immediately below the elongated conning tower.

The submarine was still running beneath the surface, but the fear of
pursuit was apparently at an end for the time being, since the
kapitan-leutnant had handed over the control of the vessel to a
quartermaster.

Since the commanding officer of the U-boat could not speak English
the examination was carried out by von Loringhoven, who in turn
translated, or mistranslated according to his own purpose, the
prisoner's replies.

"What is your name?" demanded von Loringhoven.

Farrar told him.

"_Ach!_ is that so?" exclaimed his questioner. "This is, to quote
one of your English idioms, a little bit of all right.' Unless I am
greatly mistaken you are the officer who shot my friend von
Gobendorff in cold blood."

"It was an accident," corrected the sub. "I was rabbit-shooting, and
quite by chance I wounded him slightly in his head. As to saying it
was----"

"Accident?" interrupted von Loringhoven. "That is good. Whenever an
Englishman does an underhand bit of work and he is discovered the
excuse is, 'It is an accident.' However, that is one count against
you. Now, what have you to say when I accuse you of being a common
pirate, committing outrages under the cover of a Greek flag?"

"Surely he cannot have heard of the strafing of the U-boat that was
shelling the 'Epicyclic's' boats?" thought the sub. "I'll say
nothing about that."

"Come! Come!" pressed the Run. "Why hesitate in your reply?"

"What evidence have you as proof of your assertion?" asked Farrar.

"Evidence? My own eyes," explained von Loringhoven, laughing
unpleasantly. "If you are such a fool as to go close under the stern
of the ship I happened to be on--it was the British tramp
'Andromeda,' if that information interests you--it is not at all to
be wondered at that I saw the Greek flag flying from your pirate
craft?"

"It is permissible in the circumstances," said the sub shortly.
"Germany has done the same thing times without number. Providing the
hostile vessel under false colours replaces them by his own before
opening fire it is a legitimate _ruse de guerre_. I think, however,
that there is no justification of the conduct of certain of your
submarines. I personally witnessed one engaged in shelling unarmed
men in open boats."

"Oh!" sneered von Loringhoven. "Did you? Are you sure it was a
German submarine?"

"She showed no number," replied the sub.

Von Loringhoven shrugged his shoulders.

"Even if she were," he continued, "you ought to recognise by this
time that as far as Germany is concerned might is right. We do not
admit of any outside interference in the conduct of the war,
otherwise where should we be? If you English are such fools as to
play at making war, allow yourselves to be hoodwinked by your
statesmen who attribute every one of your numerous set-backs to the
mysterious working of Providence--you know perfectly well that the
words, 'Adverse weather conditions,' appear in almost every official
report--that is to Germany's advantage. But to return to business.
You are a pirate. As such you richly deserve to be shot without
further delay, but we have motives for sparing your life, although I
don't envy your lot."

The German spoke with rising temper. For some cause that the sub
could not fathom he was venting his wrath upon the prisoner.

"From this time forward," resumed von Loringhoven, "you are dead as
far as your friends are concerned. I need hardly inform you that
Germany does not report the names of all prisoners in her hands. How
do you like the prospect of toiling in mines until you die? Not
pleasant, eh? There is one way of evading the punishment, however.
Of that you will hear more later. Meanwhile I would advise you to
give all the information we demand, without any attempt to deceive
us, for you will assuredly be found out."

"In other words," exclaimed the sub, "you want me to be a traitor to
my country. I'll see you to blazes first."

"The interview is at an end," declared von Loringhoven, in cold,
measured tones, that had a sinister ring in their delivery. "For
what you are to undergo you have only yourself to blame."

Unprotestingly Farrar was led back to his cell, an empty store-room
in the fore part of the submarine, and immediately beneath the
torpedo-tubes compartment. His resolute courage had reasserted
itself. He no longer dreaded the attentions of a British destroyer;
the satisfaction of knowing that a pack of cowardly Huns would be
done in outweighing the fear of death, even in their unhallowed
company.

For the next twenty-four hours he was kept in utter darkness; his
food and drink during that period consisted of black bread of the
consistency of plaster of Paris and a pitcher of water. He could not
help contrasting his present position with that of certain German
officers whom he had seen as prisoners on board British men-of-war.
In the matter of food and drink they fared equally as well as did
their captors; if wounded, they were given the best medical
attention available, and their comfort was considered in almost
every possible way. The ungrateful Hun, however, does not thank his
captors for their little attentions. With the arrogance of his race
he attributes his easy lot as a prisoner of war to the fear of the
British as to what might happen to them when Germany is victorious.
And on their part the British have yet to learn fully--as they are
beginning to do--that the only thing the German fears is the force
of armed might.

During the second day of his captivity Nigel was allowed to take
exercise on deck in charge of a couple of alert seamen, who had been
strictly enjoined to take every precaution lest the prisoner should
leap overboard.

The U-boat was now within sight of land, for lofty ranges of
mountains were visible on the starboard hand. She had evaded the
Otranto patrols and was now in the comparatively safe waters of the
Adriatic, and within easy distance of the numerous land-locked
harbours of the Dalmatian coast, where, under the lee of a chain of
islands, the battle-fleets of the world could lie undetected from
the open sea save from the all-seeing eyes of an aircraft.

With a couple of German sailors standing with ready automatic
pistols at a distance of twenty yards apart, the sub was compelled
to walk briskly to and fro on the fore deck. Fortunately the sea was
calm and the comparatively low-lying platform was practically free
from the waves, although occasionally a crest would break inboard
and swirl ankle-deep as far aft as the base of the conning tower.

Before Farrar had been five minutes at his enforced exercise the
kapitan-leutnant, who had been intently watching something on the
distant horizon, rapped out a string of orders, from which the sub
was able to understand with his limited knowledge of German that the
U-boat was about to dive.

Unceremoniously the prisoner was hustled below, and as he descended
the vertical steel ladder of the for'ard hatchway, he heard a petty
officer remark, "Fortunately we have but one torpedo. I cannot
understand why, since we are so near our base, the kapitan should
risk it."

"And against an armed warship, too," added the Hun to whom the
remark was addressed.

"It is unreasonable. What is she?"

"One of those accursed monitors, I believe," replied the first
speaker with a shrug of his shoulders; then, catching sight of the
prisoner being hurried forward, he spat contemptuously.

"We have to thank these Englanders for all this," he added. "But for
them the war would have been over long ago, and we should be
drinking Munich beer in the beer-gardens of Wilhelmshaven instead of
being cooped up here--perhaps everlastingly."

A gong sounded, orders were communicated to various parts of the
submarine, as, with the hiss of water entering her ballast tanks and
the muffled purr of the electric motors, the U-boat dived.

In his cell Farrar could hear the jumbled noise of a dozen or more
different sounds. Once he fancied he heard the detonation of the
impulse charge that liberated the torpedo. There was certainly a
sharp horizontal movement that follows the release of the powerful
self-actuated weapon. In vain he strained his ears for the crash of
the explosion, but he certainly heard the subdued reports of several
quick-firers in action.

It was not until three hours later that the U-boat rose to the
surface and Farrar was permitted to resume his airing on deck.
Judging by the disgruntled appearance of officers and crew, the
attempt to torpedo the hostile vessel was a failure.

Long afterwards the sub heard that the craft attacked was a British
monitor returning from certain important work in the Gulf of Venice.
The U-boat's torpedo had "got home," but owing to the peculiar
construction of the vessel attacked, the missile did very little
harm beyond blowing away a few plates from the exaggerated space
surrounding her interior or main hull, which in naval parlance is
generally spoken of as the "old hooker's blisters."

Upon returning to his cell the sub, worn out by his exertions and
privations, threw himself down upon a pile of empty sacks and was
soon sound asleep. It seemed as if he had been slumbering only a few
minutes when he was aroused by a couple of seamen standing over him.
One held an electric torch; the other, having indicated that the
prisoner should collect his scanty belongings, including his meagre
stock of food, motioned the sub to go on deck.

It was a bright moonlit night. Not a breath of wind ruffled the
waters of the enclosed harbour in which the U-boat lay. She was not
alone, but moored in one of three tiers of submarines, some eighteen
or twenty in all. Each craft was ingeniously camouflaged, light
nettings being suspended fore and aft, the meshes of which were
liberally sprinkled with freshly cut foliage, while the periscopes
ended in tufts of broad-leafed evergreens.

On one side of the harbour was a small village fronted by a long
wharf, on which electric cranes and locomotives were at work.
Although not a light was visible in any of the houses and the large
workshops on the higher ground beyond, the clearness of the moonlit
air enabled the sub to take in most of the characteristic features
of the place. Almost encircling what was undoubtedly a secret U-boat
base was a range of lofty serrated hills, culminating on the
northern side in three conical peaks of equal height.

Nigel Farrar's observations were cut short by the angry voice of the
kapitan-leutnant.

"Fools, pig-dogs, imbeciles!" he roared, addressing the two seamen
who had charge of the prisoner. "Did I not strictly enjoin you to
blindfold the Englishman? _Donnerwetter!_ You will pay dearly for
this omission."

Possibly with the idea of mitigating the impending punishment by a
belated display of zeal, or else with a vindictive desire to get
even with their captive for trouble in store for them, although
through no fault of his, the Huns seized the young British officer
by the wrists, wound a strip of coarse canvas so tightly round his
head as to threaten him with suffocation, and bundled him forward to
a gangway that led over the bows to a pontoon.

Presently the yielding planks of the pontoon gave place to hard
metalled ground, and the sub knew that he was once more on dry land.
Stumbling over ring-bolts and railway lines, to the gross amusement
of his gaolers, the prisoner was led for a distance of nearly a
mile. All around he could hear sounds of activity, the hum of
machinery, the rasping of metal, and the thud of numerous pneumatic
hammers predominating, while the air reeked with the fumes of petrol
and a peculiar, nauseating odour that the sub failed entirely to
identify.

Engines, evidently drawing small trucks, judging by the noisy
clatter, were passing and repassing continually, so close that
Farrar distinctly felt the windage from the rapidly moving train and
the blast of hot-oil-laden air in his face, for his captors had
condescended to readjust the bandage so that it no longer impeded
his mouth and nostrils.

Groups of men, marching rather than walking, were frequently
passing, and coarse greetings in which reference was made to the
blindfolded prisoner were bandied between them and the Huns, but the
language in which they spoke, although it bore a certain resemblance
to German, was almost incomprehensible as far as the sub was
concerned.

Then one of the German seamen gripped Farrar's shoulder and guided
him across what felt like a swaying plank bridge. An iron gate was
opened and closed with a sonorous clang, and a rifle-butt grounded
on hard stone.

"Sentry," thought the sub. "Seems like a tough nut to crack, but if
there's a ghost of a chance I'm on it. Wonder what's coming next?"

Up a flight of stone steps and through a wicket gate set in a larger
door the prisoner was led; then along a corridor into a room. The
bandage was removed from his eyes, and in the glare of a number of
electric lamps he found himself face to face with Ober-Leutnant Otto
von Loringhoven. With the latter were four naval and military
officers in German uniform, and another in what the sub rightly
guessed to be that of the Emperor Karl of Austria.

"This is your last chance, prisoner," began von Loringhoven without
any preamble. "Do you agree to give us all the information you
possess on any subject of which we wish to obtain intelligence?"

"I gave you my answer," replied the sub fearlessly.

"Did you?" sneered the Hun, his lips curling menacingly, and
displaying a row of teeth resembling the fangs of a wolf. "What was
it?"

"I told you I'd see you to blazes first," said the prisoner. "And
I'll stand by what I've said."

"Very good," rejoined von Loringhoven. "I trust that you will enjoy
yourself in the sulphur mines of Ostrovornik."




CHAPTER XXVIII

"A SECOND KOPENICK HOAX"


SNOW was descending in large flakes upon the southern slopes of the
rugged Riesen Gebirge, the lofty range of mountains forming part of
the national and political boundary between the German Empire and
its vassal state--the dual monarchy of Austro-Hungary. At three
kilometres beyond the diagonally striped post marking the limits of
Saxony a thin-faced, emaciated man, clad in garments little better
than a collection of rags, was sheltering on the lee-side of a gaunt
pine tree. From his features one would guess his age at anything
between thirty to thirty-five, although his actual years were short
of twenty. Privation, lack of sufficient nourishment, and hardships
untold had prematurely aged him, yet there was a certain
self-confidence in his bearing that refused to be smothered by
adversity.

After stepping from under the trailing branches and glancing
dubiously at the dark, snow-laden clouds, the wayfarer returned to
his place of shelter, drew a small piece of black bread from his
pocket and began to munch it ravenously.

"The Lord only knows where the next meal is coming from," he
soliloquised--not flippantly, but with a sense of deep and reverent
feeling. Although he had spoken nothing but German for the last
sixteen days--and he spoke it with an accent that defied
criticism--he thought in his mother-tongue, which was English.

For longer than he cared to think he had been a prisoner of war, one
of those luckless civilians who on the outbreak of the Great War
found themselves trapped within the limits of the German Empire; and
up to a little more than a fortnight ago he had eked out a dismal
and precarious existence in the vast detention camp at Ruhleben.

And now he was tasting of the sweets of freedom. He could walk, eat,
and sleep without being under the constant surveillance of German
guards. He had to walk stealthily; eating was reduced to a fine
art--that of making a little of doubtful nutritious powers go a long
way; sleeping consisted of dozing fitfully--often in the open and
occasionally in the welcome shelter of a more than half-empty barn.
But these discomforts were as naught compared with the drab monotony
and depressing surroundings of Ruhleben. He bore them with an
equanimity bordering upon exuberance, counting present vicissitudes
as stepping stones towards his ultimate goal--his homeland.

The fugitive was a man of considerable reasoning powers. Arguing
that his late captors would naturally conclude that he was making
westward towards far-distant neutral Holland, he had decided to go
south, risking the lesser danger of a journey through Austria, and
seize a favourable opportunity of passing through the comparatively
weak cordon between the Tyrol and the north of Italian Lombardy. The
possibilities of escaping into Switzerland had entered into his
calculations, only to be set aside. Bavaria offered too formidable a
stumbling-block. There were ways and means on the Italian frontier,
and he meant to try them.

The wayfarer's thoughts were rudely interrupted by the pulsations of
a motor that was rapidly approaching from the direction he had just
come.

"A Mercèdes, by Jove!" he exclaimed. "What brings a car along this
unfrequented pass, when there are two at least, infinitely better
engineered, within an hour's run? Hope to goodness I haven't been
tracked."

Thankfully he noticed that his footprints had already been
obliterated by the fast-falling snow. Then, throwing himself at full
length behind a dead thorn bush, every branch of which was outlined
with dazzling white powdery snow, he awaited the appearance of the
approaching car.

He was not long kept in suspense. Swaying and lurching the huge
Mercèdes swung into sight round a projecting spur of rock. With the
bonnet, wind-screen, and dash-boards hidden by the accumulation of
snow, and throwing showers of glistening flakes from the wheels, the
car presented a picturesque spectacle one moment. At another it was
a tangle of wreckage.

The catastrophe happened when the vehicle was abreast the solitary
pine tree where the fugitive had been sheltering. There was a loud
report as one of the tyres burst. The wheels skidding the car slewed
sideways and toppled over the edge of the road upon a partly
snow-covered rock fifty feet below.

Unhesitatingly the Englishman left his place of concealment and made
his way over the slippery track formed by the skidding wheels, until
he was able to look over the unguarded side of the road upon the
wrecked car.

It was lying on its side, the fore part shattered almost beyond
recognition, but the relatively frail coupé had come off
comparatively lightly. The top was torn away and the glass windows
smashed to fragments, but through the open roof the fugitive could
see that the interior was almost intact, and that huddled on the
floor was the figure of a man wearing a German officer's field
overcoat.

Very deliberately and cautiously the Englishman descended the
sloping cliff. It would have been an easy task but for the snow that
lay thickly on the numerous ledges and had drifted into a deep bed,
in which the car was partly buried.

Forgetting everything else in his eagerness to render aid, the
fugitive plunged knee-deep through the drift and gained the
overturned car. The door had jammed. With all the strength at his
command he was unable to wrench it open. Clambering up the side of
the coupé he dropped through the huge gap in the roof.

A brief examination of the body of the occupant was enough. The man
was dead, although there were no signs of external injury.

"I can't help him," soliloquised the Englishman. "But he might be
able to help me. I'll consider that part later. Meanwhile, what has
happened to the chauffeur?"

Standing on the heavily cushioned seat he drew himself through the
hole in the roof, and sliding down to the snowdrift proceeded to
scramble over the thinly covered ledge of rock that alone had
prevented the overturned car from crashing full four hundred feet
into the valley beneath.

There were ghastly evidences of the fate that had overtaken the
driver of the wrecked car. The force of the impact had hurled him
bodily through the wind-screen and over the bonnet. Striking
the projecting rocks he had glissaded into the abyss. A grey patch,
already nearly obliterated by the falling flakes, was all that was
visible of the soldier-driver of the demolished Mercèdes.

Returning to the car the Englishman thoughtfully contemplated the
body of the dead officer. Then he scanned the edge of the road
above, to make as certain as possible that no one was in sight.
Satisfied on that point he contrived by dint of great exertion to
drag the defunct German from the car and place him on the snowdrift.

"Very much my build. A bit fatter, though," he soliloquised grimly.
"I'll risk it, though it would have been better if I could have
appropriated the chauffeur fellow's uniform."

Rapidly he proceeded with his uncongenial task. Time was when he
would have recoiled in horror at the mere suggestion, but the prize
at stake was more than sufficient to overcome his natural qualms.
Ten minutes later the fugitive was dressed in the uniform of a
German Staff officer, while the body was laid in a shallow trench in
the snowdrift.

"If this fall continues," said the Englishman to himself, "the
wreckage will be completely covered in a couple of hours. Even now I
doubt whether it would be noticed by any one proceeding along the
pass. It will be weeks, perhaps months, before the snow disappears."

Returning to the interior of the damaged coupé the rehabitated
fugitive found that the bulk of the dead officer's baggage had been
flung from the roof and was for the present irrecoverably lost.
Inside, however, was a portmanteau, while on the seat was a luncheon
basket well stocked with choice eatables of a nature that had long
been denied to all but the higher military caste of the German
Empire.

In the fairly warm temperature of the coupé the Englishman rested
comfortably, making a hearty meal, and washing it down with a glass
of Rhenish wine. Then, lighting a cigar, he leisurely scanned the
papers from the breast pocket of the officer's coat.

"By smoke!" he ejaculated, slapping his knee. "This is
great--absolutely. I find that I am now Baron Eitel von Stopelfeld,
Major of the 19th Reserve Hanoverian Regiment, engaged on special
service in the Austrian Empire. Ah, here we are: private and
confidential memorandum outlining my important duties--signed by the
Kaiser's Head of the General Staff, too."

The instructions were to the effect that Baron von Stopelfeld was to
make a tour of inspection of various military prison camps in the
Austrian Empire, with a view of arranging for the transfer of a
certain number of Serbian and Italian prisoners of war to Germany,
to take the places of those Russian captives who, in view of the
Muscovite surrender, were to be repatriated.

At the foot of the typewritten text was a paragraph in ordinary
writing, reminding the delegate that he must also pay particular
attention to the important matter mentioned in his recent interview
with the Chief of General Staff; and, unless any news of vital
interest rendered it expedient, the Baron was not to communicate
either by letter or wire before the 19th.

"And to-day's the 12th," soliloquised the pseudo von Stopelfeld.
"That gives me six clear days. Hullo, what's this?"

He stopped and picked up a telegraph form--crumpled, and with one
corner burnt. It looked as if the Baron were in the act of
destroying it when he was hurled to his death.

"Cipher, worse luck," muttered the Englishman. "Received at 9 a.m.
on the 12th. Handed in at Berlin, delivered at Hirschberg; that's
almost the nearest town across the frontier."

Further search revealed a complete set of maps, a road guide, and
book containing the code. Upon the sudden crash the latter had
fallen from the German major's hands and had slipped between the
cushions.

Decoded the message ran:

"Above all things observe carefully any indications of disaffection
in the ranks of our Allies, especially the Hungarian regiments. Do
not commit your discoveries to writing. In particular make the
acquaintance of Major Karl Hoffer, the commandant of the Ostrovornik
mines disciplinary camp. On production of your credentials he will
give you the latest formula for the manufacture of----"

The instructions ended in a word that did not appear in the code
book, which was the only fly in the ointment that the Englishman had
found.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "Why not? I'll risk it. After all's said
and done a thundering lot of downright cool cheek often pays when
you're in a tight corner. It would be a rattling good joke to be
taken in an Austrian train to a convenient station near the
frontier. Yes, dash it all! I'll try a second Kopenick hoax."




CHAPTER XXIX

A SURPRISE


HAVING refreshed, the fugitive gathered together a few portable
articles that had belonged to the deceased Baron Eitel von
Stopelfeld, including the portmanteau. Luggage, he decided, must be
suffered in spite of the inconvenience of carrying it in the
snowstorm; the major's sword, too, for experience had taught him
that no swashbuckling, sabre-rattling Prussian officer goes far
without that emblem of authority except when he is a prisoner of
war.

It was a difficult task to regain the road, hampered as he was with
his recently acquired possessions, but at length the pseudo baron
achieved that part of the business. Viewed from the unfenced
mountain pass the derelict motorcar was, as he had expected, almost
hidden by a mantle of white.

Fortunately the wayfarer had the wind at his back, but even then his
progress was laboriously slow. Never less than ankle-deep, often
thigh-deep, the snow was rapidly increasing, until more than once
the Englishman debated whether he should seek shelter until the
storm abated.

"Might be days before it does," he mused, "and it's no joke being
caught out in the mountains. At the first village I strike I'll have
to pitch in a yarn how I, Major Baron Eitel von Stopelfeld, chance
to be servantless and forced to carry my own luggage."

On and on he trudged, sternly resisting the tempting desire to rest.
He knew the danger of halting in the snow when in a semi-torpid
state and falling into a sleep that knows no wakening in this world.
He was grateful, too, for the warmth of the great-coat, realising
that his previously ragged garb would have been totally inadequate
against the intense cold. For the next five kilometres the road was
of a give-and-take order--rugged, undulating, and fully exposed to
the now boisterous wind that howled down the pass; then, on rounding
a right-angled bend the gradient was steeply on the downward path.
Three thousand feet below lay one of the fairest of the Bohemian
valleys, its verdant fields and the tops of graceful trees of the
pine woods bathed in brilliant sunshine.

Not until he was below the snow-line did the traveller halt, partake
sparingly of food and drink, and then set out boldly towards a
wooden hamlet that nestled around a small church with a lofty,
slender spire.

"That must be Ober Gersthof," decided the Englishman, referring to
his map. "No railway within fifteen miles. Well, I reckon that I've
done enough for to-day, so here's for the luxury of a bed. Now the
question is: have I to treat these Bohemian peasantry in the same
way as the Junkers deal with theirs? I suppose so, since
Austro-Hungary, nominally an ally of Prussia, is actually a
dependent and vassal state."

At about a mile from the village the bogus baron came across the
first human being he had seen since the untimely, yet, in a sense,
fortunate demise of Major von Stopelfeld. Ambling along a lane was a
farm hand leading a low cart laden with a late autumn crop of hay.
He was whistling blithely, his full features, tanned with exposure
to wind and sun, and his fleshy arms contrasted forcibly with the
shrunken, bloodless subjects of the German Kaiser.

The Englishman halted, put down his portmanteau, and imperiously
beckoned to the countryman to hasten. This the man did, evidently
out of good humour and a desire to render assistance, but his face
showed no signs of the utter subservience of the menial Hun.

"I have been compelled by the storm to leave my carriage and
servants at Teutelsfeld," announced the make-believe German officer,
naming a village about ten miles away and far to the east of the
pass through which he had come. "I desire to get to the railway at
the nearest station."

"That is at Reichenberg, a good six hours' journey, Herr Offizier,"
replied the man respectfully, yet without any sign of cringing.

"Is there a good inn here?" inquired the Englishman, pointing
towards the village. "A good inn, mind."

"The 'Three Feathers,' mein herr," answered the peasant. "If you
will let me, I will carry your baggage and direct you to the door."

This the peasant did, receiving a mark note for his services, for
the "major" found himself well provided with paper currency in
addition to silver money equivalent to £3 in British coinage.

The landlord accepted the traveller's explanation without demur,
being of a simple open nature, and after a plain but substantial
meal the Englishman went to bed, reflecting that but for the
difference in language and the characteristic Bohemian scenery he
might have been in a rural village in his native land.

Early next morning the pseudo baron hired a conveyance which set him
down at Reichenberg just before noon. At the station were hundreds
of reservists and a fair sprinkling of Austrian officers; and not
without certain feelings of trepidation the Englishman took a
first-class ticket for Vienna.

Arriving at the Austrian capital he had abundant evidence of the war
weariness and social stagnation of the once gay city. Although he
encountered several officers in German uniform none noticed him
beyond exchanging punctilious salutes, compliments that were
indulged in by the Austrian soldiery, but with ill-concealed
reticence, for everywhere the idea was growing that the Dual
Monarchy was being bled white at the behest of Germany.

That same evening the supplanter of the Kaiser's envoy found himself
at Judenburg, a small town in Styria, almost under the shadow of the
lofty Noric Alps. It was not his fault that he had not gone farther,
but a slight landslip had rendered the railway unsafe at a short
distance beyond the town, so perforce he had to remain.

Having secured a room at the chief hotel and signed the register,
the Englishman was preparing for a quiet evening, when the aged
waiter knocked at the door.

"Pardon, Herr Offizier," he exclaimed deferentially. "A gentleman to
see you."

"A mistake," declared the fugitive in a loud voice. "I know no one
here, nor do I want to see strangers."

"But it is a person of rank who would speak with you, mein herr.
Behold his card!" And he tendered a piece of pasteboard on a wooden
tray, for the hotel's silver salver had long since gone to augment
the depleted coffers of the Emperor Karl.

The Englishman took the card. His eyebrows contracted as he read the
name. Major Karl Hoffer, Officer-Commandant of the prison camp of
Ostrovornik.

"I've been and gone and done it now," muttered the bogus baron.
"This is the result of flying high. Fortunately he's a stranger to
the real von Stopelfeld; but it seems as if I'm booked for the
Ostrovornik trip. Another day wasted--hang it!"

"Show him in," he ordered, and snatching up his sword he hastily
buckled his scabbard to the slings of his belt, twirled his waxed
moustache (he had remarked the genuine baron's hirsute adornment,
and his elaborately fitted dressing-case had proved very useful to
its new owner) and adjusted the well-fitting tunic.

The jingle of spurs and the clank of a scabbard trailing a cross the
oaken floor were the sounds that heralded the approach of the
distinguished Austrian. The door was thrown wide open, and the
waiter, in a joint capacity of major-domo, sonorously announced the
name and title of the visitor.

The Austrian officer stepped briskly three paces into the room,
halted, clicked his heels, and saluted, the Englishman likewise
standing smartly to attention and returning the compliment.

"Well, major," said the latter, signing to his guest to take a
chair. "This is a pleasant but unexpected surprise."

"I happened to see your name on the register, baron," replied
Hoffer, "and knowing that you were due to visit my establishment I
anticipated the meeting. I understand that you are relieving me of
the care of a hundred rascally Serbs and Italians. I wish you joy of
them."

For some minutes the two men discussed the merits and demerits of
the various nationalities of the prisoners of war, while the
supposititious baron ordered a couple of bottles of wine.

Under the influence of the juice of the grape Karl Hoffer waxed
injudiciously communicative.

"That is a mightily efficient gas you are manufacturing at
Ostrovornik," remarked the Englishman.

"Yes," replied the Austrian. "Perhaps you are already aware that
this district is practically the only place in Central Europe where
sulphur is found in large quantities. This deposit was only
discovered since the war. The trouble was that the gas was so
efficient that we lost hundreds of prisoners during the experimental
stages--not that it mattered much since they were prisoners, except
that the new drafts had to be instructed: a tedious business, as you
can well imagine. Until we hit upon an effectual antidote we lost
men at the rate of twenty a day. The symptoms? Acute irritation of
the epidermis, quickly followed by paralysis of the limbs. Death
will ensue within twenty minutes. Curiously enough, the gas does not
affect the respiratory organs. It is a remarkably efficacious weapon
to employ against our enemies."

The Austrian leant back in his chair and laughed heartily. The
gruesome details seemed to afford him intense amusement.

"Then you found an antidote?" asked the Englishman, with
well-assumed indifference.

Major Hoffer leant forward and lowered his voice to a husky whisper.

"Like most things: simple when you know, baron," he replied. "We
tried canvas overalls steeped in hyposulphite of soda--no good;
india-rubber solution--equally non-effectual. The gas seemed to eat
its way through with hardly any perceptible delay in its action.
Glass is impervious to it, but a soldier cannot fight in a glass
case."

He paused to watch the effect of his communication, more than half
expecting the "baron" to ask him to continue. Had he done so, the
Austrian might have drawn into his shell and put his questioner on
the wrong scent.

The Englishman offered no remark, but merely refilled his guest's
glass.

"Yes," resumed Major Hoffer, "it is a simple preventative--quite
accidentally discovered, although the English and Americans would be
most glad to know what it is. Hypo-sulphite of soda, alum in
solution, and vaseline, all applied to thin canvas overalls and
masks, the alum being merely to render the textile fabric
non-inflammable."

The conversation was maintained for the best part of an hour, the
Austrian officer doing his level best to impress that he was very
much "in the know"; while the Englishman, by discreet questioning,
obtained a vast store of valuable information.

"Then I will see you to-morrow at eleven," said Hoffer, as he rose
to take his departure. "If I were you, baron, I would recommend that
Italian prisoners only be taken for the work that your Government
proposes to start. They are better than the Serbs, especially the
Sicilians and Neapolitans who have previously been employed in their
native sulphur mines. I suppose it would be too much to ask you to
arrange for the transfer of an English prisoner?"

"An English prisoner?" repeated the supposed German officer. "For
what reason?"

Major Hoffer shrugged his shoulders.

"Personally I do not like the responsibility of him," he explained.
"We Austrians have not nearly so much hatred for England as you
Germans, if you will pardon my saying so. I received the prisoner
very unwillingly. He was landed from one of your U-boats at an
Adriatic port, and he ought, I take it, to be placed in a German
camp. A kapitan-leutnant--Otto von Loringhoven, brother to the
Julius von Loringhoven of Zeppelin fame practically insisted that I
should receive the prisoner for work in the sulphur mines. Why, I
know not."

"What is the prisoner's name?" asked the sham baron.

The Austrian shook his head.

"I cannot say off-hand," he replied. "In fact, I think he appears on
the list of prisoners only as a number."

"Is he tractable?"

"Like a caged bear; but by cutting down his rations we have tamed
him a bit. Starve an Englishman, and you develop the comparatively
mild strain of the Latin and Gallic blood in his veins; feed him,
and the hardy Teutonic, Norse, and Keltic characteristics become
paramount. That's the secret, I fancy, of the mongrel British
nation. A cross-bred dog is invariably hardier than a pure-bred
animal."

"Then there ought to be a future before the Austro-Hungarian
Empire," remarked the Englishman.

"Alas, no," rejoined Major Hoffer. "There seems to be a
hard-and-fast line between the German Austrians and the Magyars.
They are like two large tributaries running into one broad channel,
flowing side by side, but each preserving its characteristics; for
instance, like the swift-flowing Rhone and the sluggish Saône after
their confluence at Lyons."

"I'll see this Englishman," decided the pseudo baron. "If you want
to get rid of him, a little German discipline will work wonders. The
prisoner interests me. So much so that I feel inclined to take him
in hand myself. You can spare two soldiers to guard him?"

"Half a dozen, if you like," replied Major Hoffer, only too glad to
escape the after-consequences of having charge of a British naval
officer, who, according to the rules of war ought to be receiving
honourable treatment. "And you will make a point of writing to von
Loringhoven and explaining matters?"

"Two men will be sufficient," said the Baron, studiously ignoring
the second question, but resolving at some future date to
communicate with the vindictive von Loringhoven.

At the appointed hour the Englishman, arrayed in the full splendour
of his "borrowed" trappings, presented himself at the wicket-gate in
the double-barbed wire fence surrounding the Ostrovornik sulphur
mines. A guard of honour composed of Hungarian reservists turned out
and saluted, the distinguished visitor noting with a certain amount
of satisfaction that the men did not show any great signs of mental
alertness. They were of a type used to being ordered about, and
accustomed to carry out their instructions with stolid acquiescence.

Within the inner fence the baron was met by Commandant Hoffer, who
still bore traces of the bout of hard drinking in which he had
indulged, both in the supposed von Stopelfeld's company and
afterwards.

"I have just received a telegram from my senior lieutenant,"
remarked the "baron." "He is still held up at Lietzen, owing to the
railway being disorganised. You will, I trust, excuse the absence of
my staff?"

"Certainly, baron," hiccoughed the Austrian officer. "You wish to
begin by making an inspection of the gas-producing plant?"

The spurious von Stopelfeld facetiously poked his fingers against
the commandant's ribs.

"We know each other now," he exclaimed. "I'll leave out the actual
inspection--not that I have no faith in your anti-gas protector,
major, but simply because I hate exertion. You might show me the
register of prisoners. Oh, no; I don't want to inspect the men."

"But the Englishman?" inquired Major Hoffer, as he led the way to
the office.

"Oh, I forgot all about him," rejoined the "baron," with
well-feigned indifference. "Is he fairly tractable to-day?"

"You will soon see, baron," replied the Austrian commandant, and
calling to a sergeant he bade him take a file of men and bring
Prisoner No. 445 to the office.

After the lapse of about ten minutes the sergeant knocked at the
door.

"The prisoner, Excellency," he announced.

"Bring him in," growled Major Hoffer.


{Illustration: "'GOOD HEAVENS! IT'S OLD SLOGGER.'" [_p._ 325.}


The next instant a gaunt, jaundiced-featured man was unceremoniously
bundled into the room. In spite of his rags, his bent shoulders, and
emaciated limbs he bore himself proudly, almost disdainfully, ready
to meet whatever the fates doled out with the fortitude of a British
officer.

"Good heavens!" exclaimed the bogus baron, in his unbounded
astonishment completely forgetting his "Kopenick stunt." "It's old
Slogger!"




CHAPTER XXX

COMRADES IN A STRANGE LAND


"WHAT did you say, baron?" asked Major Karl Hoffer.

The supposed von Stopelfeld pulled himself together. Giving the
prisoner a swift glance that conveyed a warning, he turned to the
Austrian, thankfully remembering that the latter knew no English.

"I told the fellow to stand to attention," replied the "baron"
mendaciously. "_Himmel!_ he looks a scarecrow. Nevertheless, he
interests me. Do your men speak English?"

"No, baron."

"That is unfortunate. For my part I loathe having to make use of the
jargon. I would far rather that others cross-questioned the fellow.
Does he speak German?"

"He does, but he won't," replied the major. "A more obstinate mule I
never had to deal with."

"You know me, Slogger?" asked the spurious Hun.

"Yes," replied Farrar slowly, almost reluctantly. "You're Sylvester,
usually known as the Moke. But since you are wearing an enemy
uniform and are presumably a traitor I want no truck with you."

"Don't be an ass, Slogger!" said the Moke hoarsely, in order to keep
up the rôle of an arrogant Hun. "And stick to your defiant attitude.
I'll explain. Got away from Ruhleben, changed clothes with a Fritz
and assumed his name and rank. Quite by accident I came here, and it
may prove a fortunate occurrence. Hope so, for I'll do my level best
to get you away."

"Sorry I did you an injustice, old bird," said the sub. "I was
rattled, I expect. This life is hell.... Think you'll manage it all
right? Without landing yourself in the cart, I mean."

"I'll take my chance at that," replied Sylvester. "We'll sink or
swim together. Passive resistance is your cue. Now, I must switch
off and tackle the commandant."

"What do you think of the prisoner, baron?" inquired Major Hoffer.

"Not much," replied Sylvester brusquely. "He looks to have the
strength of a rat. He will be handy, however, with his experience,
and he'll be made to work. What a droll situation! Making poison gas
to be used against his own country. Oh, yes. Send two men with him.
I'll take all responsibility. Now for the register."

Borrowing a blue pencil the bogus Eitel von Stopelfeld went through
the list of prisoners' names, former occupations, and present
employment, "ticking off" the required number.

"You will require a special train for that crowd, baron," observed
Major Hoffer. "After all, would it not be better to send the
Englishman with the others?

"Perhaps.... No; I think we will keep to our original plan. I have
reasons. That is all, major. It will indeed be a pleasure for me to
recommend you to my illustrious master, the German Emperor; so do
not be surprised if in due course you receive l'ordre pour le
Mérite. You deserve it, upon my word."

"I have already sent the prisoner on foot," explained the Austrian
commandant. "The escort will arrive at Judenburg at the same time as
your car, so there is no hurry. A bottle of wine?"

The Moke declined.

"My head aches already," he protested. "Perhaps it is the reek of
the sulphur fumes. Let me see; there is a train for Salzburg at
three?"

"That is so, baron. It arrives at Salzburg at seven, which means
that you will be in Munich by nine."

At Judenburg station Sylvester found his chum standing between two
heavily built, sullen-featured Magyars, with rifles and fixed
bayonets, while a small crowd composed of old men, women, and
children gazed in open-mouthed interest at the prisoner and his
guards.

Outwardly ignoring the sub's presence Sylvester swaggered into the
ticket-office and ordered the woman in charge to issue a pass for an
officer and three men to Salzburg.

"Do not answer any questions from any one except with my
permission," cautioned the supposititious von Stopelfeld, addressing
the Hungarian soldiers.

"Your will is our command, Excellency," replied one of the men in
halting German.

Upon the arrival of the train the bogus baron boarded a first-class
carriage, while Farrar and his escort were placed in a fourth-class
compartment. The Moke had no more intention of going even as far as
Salzburg than he had of making for the North Pole. He knew that the
escort had no notion of their present destination, and holding the
railway pass he could easily browbeat the train officials. He also
knew that by not changing at a certain junction he would be carried
in the opposite direction, through Klagenfurt and Laibach to
Trieste. His plan was to find a pretext for dismissing the two
soldiers, obtain a suitable disguise for his chum, and for the pair
to slip across the Italian frontier. In any case he had good reasons
for not going as far as Trieste.

The journey was a tedious one. A constant stream of troop trains
bound for the Piave front had the effect of holding up the ordinary
traffic almost hourly, and it was dusk before the fugitives reached
a little out-of-the-way village in Carniola, and about fifty miles
from the head of the Adriatic.

Under the pretext that there was no _wagon à lit_ attached to the
train, and roundly abusing the Austrian railway authorities for
their neglect to provide for the comfort of German officers, the
Moke ordered the prisoner and escort out of the carriage, redoubling
his torrent of invective when he learnt that the village was two
miles from the station.

"You will remain here with your prisoner," he ordered, pointing to
an isolated farmhouse. "There will be accommodation for you in a
stable, and with a strong lock on the door the prisoner will be
safe."

"Very good, Excellency," replied the senior soldier.

With the last of the fading daylight glinting dully upon the fixed
bayonets the men marched their prisoner towards the house. As they
approached there was the piercing shriek of a woman's voice, while
almost at the same moment the figure of a man, bending low, darted
from the side of the building and fled across the adjoining fields.

"Now what's the trouble?" soliloquised the Moke.

He was not long left in doubt, for a grey-haired woman appeared,
wringing her hands and begging the officer to have mercy.

Quickly Sylvester grasped the situation. The man he had seen
escaping was a deserter, the woman his mother. Under the impression
that the soldiers were coming to arrest her son the woman was
frantic, knowing full well the strict penalties for harbouring a
deserter and the far more severe punishment for the fugitive, should
he be caught.

With reluctantly assumed harshness the Moke questioned the mother at
great length, purposely giving the deserter time to get well away.
Her son's uniform and equipment, he discovered, were hidden under
the hearth-stone.

"Bring them here," ordered the supposed officer. "Is there no one
else living here?"

"Only my grandson, and he is but nine years old," replied the woman.
"He is asleep."

"Good enough," decided the Moke. "This is a bit of luck, but hanged
if I want to get the old dame into trouble. If I lock her up her
grandson will release her in the morning; but how about Slogger's
escort?"

Ordering the deserter's mother into a room Sylvester locked the
door, leaving the key in the lock. Then, making use of the late
Baron Eitel von Stopelfeld's official correspondence form, he wrote
a request to the Provost-Marshal of Laibach, asking him to keep the
bearers of the letter under arrest until he, Major von Stopelfeld,
appeared to lay a charge against them of conduct prejudicial to
military interests.

"Can either of you read?" demanded the supposed officer, as he
rejoined the escort waiting without.

"No, Excellency."

"Thick-headed louts!" grumbled the Moke. "See to what trouble you
have put me. Lock the prisoner in yonder barn, and show this letter
to the station-master. He will direct you further. Carry out his
instructions and deliver this letter to the person to whom it is
addressed and none other. You understand?"

"Yes, Excellency."

"Then hasten; you ought to return here by midnight."

The two soldiers, strangers in a strange district, saluted and
hurried away, glad to be clear of the obnoxious influence of the Hun
who was temporarily their commanding officer.

The Moke waited until he was fairly certain that the coast was
clear; then he unlocked the door of his chum's place of
incarceration.

"How about a good tuck-in, Slogger?" he asked briskly.

"Right-o, Moke!" was the cheery reply, recalling long-past tuck-shop
days in peaceful England.

A search in the farmhouse larder provided a rye loaf, a piece of
freshly made cheese, and a portion of a meat-pie. This, with a
hastily prepared salad and a bottle of wine, furnished a substantial
repast. Both men were hungry, Farrar especially, and hardly a word
was exchanged until the sub announced that he was "properly
whacked," and "down to Plimsoll line."

"Now change," suggested the Moke, indicating the deserter's uniform.
"For the next few hours you are my soldier servant. We'll make for
the marshes east of Livenza. According to well-authenticated reports
I hear that there are large numbers of Austrian deserters who lurk
there and live on the fish that they catch and the food they steal
from the Italian peasantry. The Austrians have not sufficient
military police to stop the desertions; in fact, several of the
policemen desert themselves. If we are stopped before we get there
I'll have to spin a plausible yarn."

"That's all very well," objected the sub as he struggled into an
ill-fitting tunic; "but the nearer we get to the lines the greater
risk we run of being closely examined. I can quite understand your
being able to ape the blustering Hun in the interior of the Austrian
Empire, but there are numerous German troops on the Italian front,
and they are dead nuts on detecting spies. I don't fancy dangling at
the end of a rope."

"Nor do I," admitted Sylvester, perhaps for the first time realising
the extreme penalty that he had been incurring by his Kopenick
stunt. "Can you suggest anything better? That's the main point."

"The sea," replied Farrar. "That's our trump card. Provided we
strike the coast at a reasonable distance from Trieste, Fiume, or
Pola there's not much risk of being snapped up by the Austrian
patrol boats. Our monitors and the Italian destroyers are top-dog in
the Adriatic, you'll find."

"But we can't swim across to Italy," objected the Moke. "Even
Leander wouldn't have taken on that contract--not for a dozen
Heros."

"There's bound to be a fishing-boat we can collar," continued the
now optimistic sub. "You pilot me to the coast, Moke, and I'll pilot
you across the ditch."

"All right," agreed Sylvester. "Let's make a move."

Just as they were about to leave the farmhouse Sylvester suddenly
had an idea. He went upstairs and knocked on the door of the room in
which the old woman was under lock and key.

"I have decided not to report your son's desertion, or your
complicity," he announced. "For reasons best known to myself I have
formed this decision. If you mention a word of the matter to any one
the consequences will be extremely serious to all parties concerned.
You will therefore deny all knowledge of any person or persons
visiting this house to-night."

With copious blessings and thanks the Austrian mother faithfully
promised to carry out Herr Offizier's instructions, and the Moke
departed with the firm conviction that he had covered his tracks in
this direction. By the time Farrar's late escort had been released
and had told their story, he reflected, the men would be so
thoroughly bewildered that it was a question whether they would
remember where they had been, much less recognise the house, while
they knew nothing of the deserter's flight.

Satisfied on that score Sylvester rejoined his companion and,
steering a course by the stars, walked briskly towards the still
distant coast, the two taking turns at carrying the Baron's
portmanteau. Knowing the valuable nature of its contents the Moke
was reluctant to abandon the trophy.

Avoiding the villages and keeping at a distance from the indifferent
roads the fugitives "carried on" for the best part of two days,
until just as the sun was on the point of setting they reached the
summit of a long, rugged range of hills. Beyond they could see what
appeared to be a bank of mist, tinted crimson in the declining rays.
To the Moke it was a fog bank and nothing else; but to the sub the
sight meant something far different.

"Thalassa!" he exclaimed joyously.




CHAPTER XXXI

A DASH FOR FREEDOM


THE ecstasy of Xenophon's Ten Thousand at the sight of the sea could
not have exceeded the sub's feelings of thankfulness at the distant
view of the placid waters of the Adriatic. To him the sea
called--the welcome greeting of freedom. Beyond was England, Home,
and Beauty--the latter personified in the name of Winifred
Greenwood. True, there was a large slice of land intervening, but
what mattered that the breadth of Italy and France lay between him
and England? The sea was the key to freedom.

Sylvester hardly regarded the expanse of water in the same light.
For one thing he was a bad sailor, for another he had grave doubts
about being able to make a passage across the huge land-locked sea
without being overhauled and recaptured by an enemy craft.
Personally he would have preferred hours, perhaps days, of
discomfort in the Piave marshes, and take the chance of gaining the
Italian lines, rather than trust himself to the mercies of wind,
waves, and the enemy craft.

Acting solely off his own bat he was resolute and resourceful; but
in the presence of the sublieutenant the latter's forceful
personality held almost absolute sway.

"Only another five miles," declared Farrar. "We'll have to go slow.
If this coast is patrolled only half so efficiently as that of the
British Isles it will be no walk over. When do we discard this
gear?"

He indicated the uniform they were wearing: The Moke smiled grimly.
Since his chum had been obliged to ask his advice his directive
force reasserted itself.

"When we have decent clothes to put on," he replied. "Meanwhile,
until we get afloat--and that's where you direct operations--I am
still Baron Eitel von Stopelfeld, and you are my Austrian servant
and lug my gear. Imagine yourself a fag again, Slogger."

"But my rotten German would give me away as soon as I opened my
mouth," objected the sub. "Have you considered that flaw in the
contract, Moke, my festive?"

"Certainly," replied Sylvester gravely. "It occurred to me almost as
soon as we left the farm. You'll have to be deaf and dumb through
shell-shock. I'll do the explaining."

The chums relapsed into silence, which was for them a fortunate
circumstance; for on gaining the outskirts of a small wood they ran
up against a block-house.

The levelled bayonet of a sentry brought them up all standing.
Flight was practically impossible, for the starlight was so bright
that there was an almost certainty of being shot down before they
could run half a dozen yards.

"It's all right," declared the Moke. "I am a German officer on
special service, bound for Trieste, but my car has broken down."

The sentry made no effort to recover his arms. Without replying he
whistled softly, and a sergeant and half a dozen men issued from the
outpost.

"Your papers, Herr Offizier?" demanded the non-com.

"Certainly, if your instructions require you to see them," replied
the pseudo German major.

The sergeant inspected them by the light of the lantern. He made no
attempt to read them, for the simple reason that he was one of the
Austrian army's high percentage of illiterates.

"These are quite in order, Herr Major," he exclaimed. "But this man
--who is he?"

"My servant," replied the Moke, high-handedly. "He is deaf and dumb,
having been, I understand, an artillery man at the Skroda Works.
_Donnerwetter!_ Why such a dolt was foisted on to me I cannot
imagine."

"But he wears an infantryman's uniform," persisted the sergeant,
holding the lantern above his head and peering into Farrar's face.

"Do you doubt a German officer's word, numbskull?" thundered the
"baron" in the typically blustering tone in which the military caste
address their rank and file, "Have you never heard of a man being
transferred from one branch of the army to another? You are wasting
my time. I feel inclined to report the delay. Is there a field
officer anywhere about?"

"Pardon, Herr Major," stammered the overwhelmed sergeant. "Pray
overlook the matter."

"For this once, then," said the Moke magnanimously. "Now tell me:
can I obtain a conveyance of any sort to take me to Trieste?"

The sergeant pondered.

"I am afraid not, Herr Major. It is a very rough road. But----"

"But what?" demanded Sylvester, doing his level best to flurry the
already disconcerted man.

"One of the coast patrol boats puts into the fishing port here on
her way to Trieste. She is due at a few minutes after midnight. They
might give you a passage."

"I loathe sea passages," objected the Moke. "Is it a large craft?"

"Fairly, Herr Major. She carries only three men--a petty officer, a
seaman, and a motor mechanician; occasionally she carries military
officers from the various ports when they wish to visit Trieste. I
will send and ask my commanding officer's permission for you to take
a passage in her."

"Major Aufferich has gone to Laibach, sergeant," announced one of
the men in a stage whisper.

"Then I can give you authority on my own responsibility, Herr
Major," continued the non-com. "I will also send a man to guide you
to the fishing-port."

He seemed most anxious to make amends for the affront he had
occasioned in a perfectly legitimate display of zeal. The Moke
pondered over the matter, until catching Farrar's eye he plainly
read the sub's acceptance of the proposal.

"All right, sergeant," decided the spurious Hun. "Send a man, by all
means. He can help my man to carry my luggage, but he'll find him a
most uncommunicative comrade."

A thought flashed across the Moke's mind.

"What is the countersign, sergeant?" he asked.

"Good man," thought Farrar. "The old Moke's 'cuteness has developed
enormously. There are no flies on him, by Jove!"

"The countersign is _Scharfschutze und Huszar_, Herr Major,"
announced the sergeant; then turning to one of his men: "Josef,
conduct His Excellency to the harbour. Inform Corporal Herz that he
is to signal the patrol boat to wait and embark an illustrious
passenger.... Everything will now be in order, Herr Major."

The guard stood rigidly at attention until the Moke's increased
party had covered the regulated distance. Then the sergeant's voice
was heard ordering the men to dismiss, and with a heavy tramping of
feet and clattering of accoutrements the men returned to the shelter
of the block-house.

Once during the journey to the coast the Austrian offered some
remark to his supposed fellow-soldier. The Moke turned on him
sharply.

"Silence, fool!" he hissed. "Did you not hear me say that my servant
is deaf and dumb? Take the luggage from him. He is tired."

The soldier slung his rifle and relieved Farrar of the portmanteau.
The sub was glad of the respite, since he had had more than his fair
share of carrying it.

"It is infernally dark just here," grumbled the "baron," as they
came to a narrow part of the road as it wound between two rocky
heights. "Lead on, and show me the way."

Taking advantage of the Austrian being some ten paces ahead, the
Moke withdrew the defunct von Stopelfeld's automatic pistol from his
holster and handed it to the sub.

"That's more in your line," he whispered.

Farrar nodded. Although the weapon was of a different pattern from
those to which he was accustomed, he felt confident that he could
make use of it effectually if occasion offered. In any case it would
be useful for purposes of intimidation.

The countersign passed them through the lines surrounding the
fishing hamlet, and by the time they gained the water's edge it was
close on midnight.

Being a port of slight military importance, a corporal's guard was
deemed sufficient to maintain order, the non-com.'s duty being
chiefly to prevent any of the fishing craft entering or leaving the
harbour between sunset and sunrise, while at regular intervals an
Austrian naval patrol boat looked in to ascertain that the military
maintained watch and ward.

Corporal Herz received the sergeant's instructions without emotion,
and as a long dark grey boat crept with throttled engines round the
southern headland of the harbour, two red lights were hoisted from a
flagstaff at the extremity of the rough wharf.

Cautiously, as if afraid of the locality, the motor-launch drew
alongside the flight of stone steps. The coxswain gripped the
handrail with his boathook, while the bowman performed a similar
duty for'ard. Although the boat displayed no lights, there was
sufficient starlight to enable the fugitives to satisfy themselves
that on this occasion the boat carried no other passengers.

"Any orders, Herr Major?" asked the coxswain, as the Moke, Farrar,
and the portmanteau were deposited in the spacious stern sheets.

"None," replied Sylvester curtly. "You have plenty of petrol, I
hope. Last time one of your patrol boats caused me to miss a court
of inquiry from a lack of petrol."

"Enough for four hours' run at fifty kilometres an hour, Herr
Major," replied the cox swain obsequiously. He was a little, fussily
important man who, the Moke decided, was like a gasbag; the bowman
was of a different type--tall, broad-shouldered, and stolid. The
third member of the crew, the artificer in the motor-room, was
invisible. It was unlikely that he would cause much trouble.

"Cannot I have a lamp in the cabin?" asked Sylvester.

"I will see to it, Herr Major," replied the petty officer. "If the
windows are screened it is permissible, but there would be much
trouble if a single ray of light were allowed to escape."

He shouted an order to the bowman. The latter, his immediate work
completed, had laid aside his boat-hook and was meditating a
retirement to the fore-peak. Presently he came aft with an unlighted
lantern. This he fixed in the cabin, drew shutters over the square
panes of glass in the sides of the raised cabin-top, and finally
lighted the lamp.

"It is ready, Herr Major," reported the coxswain.

The patrol boat was now clear of the harbour. The open sea was as
smooth as a mill-pond. Not another craft of any description was in
sight.

Farrar, shivering in the night air in his thin, shoddily made
uniform, watched his companion with envious eyes as Sylvester
entered the cabin. In the rôle of officer's servant he was
experiencing several of the inconveniences that it is the lot of a
common soldier to have to grin and bear.

There was no time to be lost, for the sooner the Moke put his plan
into execution the better. Every revolution of the motor-boat's twin
propellers was taking her nearer Trieste--and Trieste was a most
unhealthy locality as far as the bogus Baron Eitel von Stopelfeld
was concerned.

A hasty glance round the cabin revealed the presence of three
revolvers in a rack. Jerking back the chambers Sylvester discovered
that they were fully loaded. Deftly he extracted the cartridges from
two of the weapons and put them in his pocket, grimly reflecting
that there was a time, not so very far distant, when the mechanism
of a revolver was a mystery to him. Not that he never wanted to know
"how it worked," but because he had a horror of the sight of
firearms of any description.

The three revolvers he slipped into the outside pocket of his
great-coat, since the pistol would not fit the holster from which he
had taken the automatic to give to his chum.

Stepping from the cabin into the cockpit the Moke waited until his
eyes grew accustomed to the comparative darkness of the night; then
he turned abruptly and addressed the coxswain.

"Any craft in sight?" he asked.

"No, Herr Major," replied the man.

"That is good," rejoined Sylvester. "I want you to steer due west."

For once at least the petty officer hesitated to obey orders. His
illustrious passenger had authority, but whether a German military
officer could issue peremptory instructions to an Austrian petty
officer was a proposition that gave rise to doubts in the coxswain's
mind. If he disobeyed, the consequences might be serious, if on
returning to Trieste his superior upheld the German's action. That
was one of the many curses that the hated Teutons' lust of world
power had laid upon their none too enthusiastic Allies. On the other
hand, if he complied with the military officer's behest, he might be
"hauled over the coals" by his own superiors.

"Due west," repeated the Moke sternly.

The coxswain looked up into Sylvester's face. His flabby features
turned a ghastly greyish hue, his beady eyes were almost starting
from his head. Drops of perspiration on his bulging forehead
glistened in the starlight; his teeth were chattering audibly.

"Pardon, Herr Major," he stammered; then like a weak-willed
individual under mesmeric influence he put the helm hard over.

Travelling at high speed the patrol boat heeled violently to
starboard, so much so that the Moke was within an ace of being shot
out of the cockpit, while the bowman, his curiosity aroused by the
unwonted change of direction, thrust head and shoulders out of the
oval-shaped hatchway in the fore-deck.

"See to that chap, Slogger!" shouted the Moke, all need for silence
being past.

Pistol in hand the sub leapt from the cockpit, making his way along
the narrow waterway by the wall of the motor-room coaming, and
levelled his weapon full at the bowman's head.

"_Rechts Sie unter!_" ordered Farrar in his execrable German.

Whether the Austrian seaman understood the words or not, the sub's
gesture was sufficient. Taken completely at a disadvantage the
broad-shouldered sailor withdrew his head and shoulders and
disappeared from view.

In a trice the sub shut and secured the metal lid of the aperture.
He guessed that the boat was built with water-tight transverse
bulkheads, and in that case there was no direct communication
between the fore-cabin and the motor-room.

The mechanician remained to be dealt with. Had not it been for the
fact that the bowman began to shout and hammer at the steel
partition the former would have "carried on" in blissful ignorance
of the change of masters; but hearing the clamour he began to climb
through the narrow opening which gave access to the open air.

The sub, on his way aft, turned just in time to see a powerfully
built man grasping a heavy spanner. Promptly he levelled his pistol,
but the fellow showed no sign of temerity. He was all but clear of
the hatchway when Farrar, hesitating to shoot a man labouring under
a great disadvantage, struck him fairly between his eyes. Like a
felled ox the Austrian tumbled inertly upon the deck, with his legs
dangling down the motor-room hatchway.

"Beastly inconsiderate of him," exclaimed the sub, addressing his
chum. "He's chucked his hand in, so I suppose I must take on his
job. Push Little Willie into the cabin and come and bear a hand. The
boat will take care of herself for a brace of shakes."

The coxswain suffered himself to be precipitated unceremoniously
down the three metal-edged steps of the companion-ladder, and under
lock and key in the cabin he was left to puzzle his addled brains
over the obvious disadvantage of German domination, for he had not
yet "tumbled to" the true cause of the fracas. Consoling himself
that the onus of the affair rested upon the shoulders of the
military authorities for having ordered him to embark the truculent
and domineering Prussians, he decided upon the policy of passive
resistance.

With Sylvester's assistance Farrar contrived to lower the senseless
motor-engineer down the hatchway into the fore-peak, the bowman
making no attempt either to break out or to help his comrade. Under
the mistaken impression that the latter had been murdered, he
cowered in the farthermost corner of the recess formed by the boat's
flaring bows, nor did he stir till long after the hatch had been
replaced and secured.

"Now you had better take over, Slogger," suggested the Moke, as the
chums returned to the cockpit. "I'm no hand at this game," and he
indicated the unattended steering-wheel.

The sub glanced at the compass bowl, and then steadied the boat on
her course.

"Sorry," he replied. "I'll have to be popping below to the engines.
Didn't bargain for that, but one must take things as they come. I'll
put you through a lightning course of helmsmanship. She's right
now--with the lubber's line immediately on the point west.... Now
she's off it; so turn the wheel to starboard.... There, she's back
again."

"Horrible strain watching the compass," complained the Moke.

Farrar took the wheel out of his companion's hands.

"Now," he continued, "she's on her course, You'll notice her head's
pointing to a certain star. Keep her on that for a few minutes at a
time and occasionally check the direction of the compass. A few
quarter-points out won't make much difference, but remember that
star has a movement of its own. That's right; you're getting the
hang of it. I'll nip below and see how things are going. Whistle if
you want me; this voice-tube communicates with the motor-room."

For the best part of two hours nothing unusual occurred. The
motor-boat was not doing her best, but considering that the sub had
to deal with a strange engine, it was not to be wondered at. Farrar
estimated her speed at twenty knots, a rate that if maintained ought
to bring the fugitives within sight of the Italian coast shortly
after daylight.

Presently Sylvester chanced to glance astern. As he did so he caught
sight of a white light blinking rapidly.

"Say, Slogger, old man!" he shouted to his chum in the motor-room.
"Come on deck, will you?"

The sub rejoined the amateur helmsman with the utmost promptitude.

"Look!" continued the latter, pointing astern.

"Dash it all, Moke!" exclaimed the sub. "We're in for something. If
I'm not very much mistaken, we are being chased by an Austrian
destroyer."




CHAPTER XXXII

TOUCH AND GO


SEIZING the steering-wheel Farrar flung the boat hard to port, in
the hope that he might shake off pursuit by running at right angles
to his former course. By so doing he was taking her farther from
Venice, but in this matter he had little option. Had he ported helm
the change of direction would have brought the patrol boat athwart
the course of the destroyer.

"Take her," he exclaimed hurriedly, and hied him to the motor-room,
letting the engines "all out" with full throttle.

When he returned on deck the hostile craft had also altered helm.
She was gaining steadily. Columns of flame-tinged smoke poured from
her four funnels, while her outlines were faintly discernible
against the starlit sea as she came bows on to the fugitives.

Again she signalled, throwing out a code message.

"She doesn't like to open fire," declared the sub. "She's puzzled.
Thinks we might be one of her patrol boats. We are, as far as the
craft's concerned. Ah, I thought so: a warning shot."

A spurt of flame leapt from the destroyer's fo'c'sle, and, almost as
soon as the sharp report, a 12-centimetre shell struck the water a
cable's length away from the patrol boat's starboard quarter.

"A miss is as good as a mile," observed Sylvester. Nevertheless he
ducked beneath the coaming, as if the thin teak plank was a
sufficient protection from a powerful shell.

"It was intended as a miss," rejoined Farrar. "She'll get nearer
than that, I fancy. Moke, old man, it's 'No Surrender.'"

"No Surrender," repeated Sylvester firmly. He had had quite enough
of prison life in an enemy country to wish not to repeat the
experience. Then, "How about those chaps?" he inquired, indicating
the fore-peak, from which frantic shouts punctuated by loud beats
upon the hatchway floated aft.

The sub pondered for a moment only.

"I'll give them the option of jumping overboard or hanging on here,"
he decided. "There are lifebelts... the destroyer will, I take it,
stop and pick up some of her own crowd. Of course it's a toss-up."

Pistol in hand the sub crept for'ard. For a minute or so, during
which interval another shell burst astern of the boat, he exchanged
words with the two men. Then he unbolted the hatch and came aft.

Presently the bowman and the motor-artificer (who had quite
recovered consciousness) crawled through the hatchway, dragging
lifebelts after them; While they were donning the life-saving gear a
third shell pitched so close to the bows that the boat drove through
the descending column of spray.

A similar proposition to the coxswain was rejected. Nothing would
induce the little man to emerge from the cabin, where he was lying
at full length upon the floor.

"We'll leave the door unlocked," declared the sub. "He's not likely
to give trouble, and we can't be accused of leaving a prisoner to
drown in a boxed-in cabin--like the Huns have an unpleasant habit of
doing. Hullo what's that?"

The two men for'ard were shouting an pointing aft. In spite of the
roar of the engine, Farrar understood. They were afraid of being
caught in the suction of the rapidly revolving propellers.

"Quite a reasonable fear," muttered the sub. "I've felt the same
sort of thing myself; but I'm sorry I can't stop to let them dive in
gracefully. I'll slow down a bit, although it's jolly risky for us."

By means of the reverse gear lever in the cockpit--a supplementary
device to enable the motor to be regulated in the event of the
mechanism being incapacitated--Farrar threw the propeller' shafts
out of clutch. The boat began to lose way appreciably.

"_Beeilen Sie sich!_" shouted the sub.

The two Austrians required no second bidding. Both leapt feet
foremost into the water, striking out with the utmost vigour, as if
afraid that their late captors would restart the propellers and "do
them in."

The patrol boat quickly worked up to her previous speed, but the
pursuing craft had decreased the intervening distance to about a
mile. Already the first gleam of dawn was stealing across the
eastern sky, silhouetting the dark outlines of the destroyer against
the grey blend of sea and air in the distant horizon.

"Good business!" exclaimed Farrar. "She's reversing engines to pick
those fellows up."

The Austrian skipper was no novice at the job, nor was he a man to
waste time in stopping to pick two seamen out of the water when
there were greater issues at stake, Merely stopping the engines he
steered the still swiftly moving craft close to the swimmers;
bowlines were thrown them, and in a very brief space of time they
were both hauled on board.

Yet during this manoeuvre the destroyer lost more than the patrol
boat had done when Farrar humanely declutched the propellers. The
distance between pursuer and pursued had increased to nearly two
miles.

All hope of shaking off the destroyer in the darkness was now at an
end. North, south, east, and west the sky line was unbroken save by
the grim outlines of the enemy craft. Every minute it was growing
lighter, thus decreasing the slight advantage held by the patrol
boat. It might be on this account that the larger craft was
withholding her fire, for her guns were now silent; or, perhaps, the
men rescued from the sea had informed the captain of the destroyer
that there was another compatriot on the mysteriously captured boat.

The upper disc of the sun appeared above the horizon, a blood-red
arc of fire. Farrar found himself wondering whether he was about to
look upon the orb of day for the last time, yet, in spite of his
resolution to fight to a finish, he mechanically put on a lifebelt
which his companion had handed him.

A clanking sound from the motor-room, audible above the purr of the
machinery and the throb of the pistons, roused the sub to a state of
activity.

"Knocking badly!" he exclaimed. "Half a minute, Moke; I'll see
what's to be done."

Even as he moved towards the hatchway there came an ear-splitting
crash. The bows of the boat rose high out of the water, and subsided
heavily in a smother of smoke and foam. A cloud of steam issuing
from the motor-room indicated that an inrush of sea water had come
in contact with the hot cylinders. The ignition failed, and the
propellers ceased to revolve.

Then, with a sickening, shuddering movement the stricken craft
heeled over on her side, with her bows level with the water.
Momentarily recovering from her list, she slid beneath the surface,
leaving the two chums floundering in a maelstrom of oil and foam.

"That's done it!" ejaculated the sub, addressing the well-nigh
breathless Moke, who was choking and coughing from the effects of
swallowing a mouthful of particularly greasy fluid. "What's that
you're hanging on to?"

"Only the p-p-portmanteau," spluttered Sylvester. "It won't
s-s-sink, dash it!"

The sub swam to his chum's side.

"We'll open it. The thing's watertight as it is," he said. "Won't do
to let that fall into the hands of the enemy."

Even as he fumbled with the sliding locks a terrific roar rent the
air. Where the destroyer had been but a brief instant before there
was nothing but a cloud of smoke and a shower of flying debris,
while, at an altitude of about five hundred feet and rocking
violently in the agitated air, was a large flying-boat.

"Hang on to the bag, Moke," exclaimed Farrar. "'We needn't scuttle
it now. Hullo, here's Little Willie."

The last remark referred to the coxswain of the patrol boat. More
fortunate than his former messmates he was floating upon the surface
at a distance of less than twenty yards from the sub and his
companion. Not only had he lashed a lifebelt round his waist but
others encircled each leg. A fourth he grasped with his left hand,
while his right arm was waving frantically to attract the attention
of the aircraft that had strafed a vessel flying the ensign under
which he served.

"Wonder if it's the 'Avenger'?" soliloquised the sub. "Shouldn't be
surprised, but they are all so beautifully alike. Can't tell t'other
from which."

He was not long left in doubt. The flyingboat circled above the
scene of her latest success; then spotting the immersed men, she
shut off her motors and glided gracefully downwards, alighting with
a healthy splash at a distance of nearly half a mile from the sub
and his companions.

Then the motors throbbed again, and under the action of her
hydrostatic propeller the flying-boat glided on the surface towards
the spot where the patrol craft had foundered.

"By Jove!" ejaculated the sub. "We're in luck's way. It is the
'Avenger,' and there's old Barcroft, bless his chirpy figurehead!"

"Who's Barcroft?" inquired the Moke.

"Pal of mine, and a thundering good sort," replied Farrar. "Don't
let that portmanteau go now."

"I don't mean to," declared Sylvester grimly. The "Avenger" eased
down. Maintaining a precarious hold on her flaring sides a
bluejacket "stood by" with a coil of rope.

"A bloomin' crowd of Fritzes, sir," he reported. "One of them an
officer. Rummy sort o' goings on, that destroyer sinking some of her
own side."

The Austrian coxswain was the first to be rescued, his array of
lifebelts causing unrestrained hilarity amongst the British crew of
the flying-boat. The Moke, still hanging on to Baron Eitel von
Stopelfeld's property, was the next to be hauled on board, Farrar
following, attired only in a coarse blue-grey shirt and soldier's
ill-fitting trousers.

"Come aboard, sir," he announced according to the custom of the
Senior Service, as he saluted the astonished flight-lieutenant.

"Farrar, by all that's wonderful!" ejaculated the astonished Billy.
"Bless my soul, man, I little thought that I was hauling you out of
the ditch. We heard that you had been done in.... Reported missing;
believed killed. Come along for'ard; I'll see if I can kit you out
in dry rig. And these are chums of yours?"

"Yes," replied the irrepressible sub. "The one hugging that bag is
Tony Sylvester, alias Baron Eitel von Stopelfeld, otherwise known as
the Moke--highly intelligent animal, I can assure you, for if it
hadn't been for him I shouldn't be here. The other--we've dubbed him
Little Willie--is a scratch acquaintance. You needn't be afraid of
passing remarks about him in his presence, for he wouldn't tumble to
it."

Since the flying-boat did not carry a liberal wardrobe Sylvester, on
discarding the saturated German officer's uniform, had perforce to
be rigged out in a duffel suit, while Farrar was accommodated with a
bluejacket's trousers and a great-coat belonging to Kirkwood,
Billy's second-in-command, who was on the point of turning in to
make up arrears of sleep.

The "Avenger" was temporarily attached to the British squadron
acting in concert with the Italian fleet in the Gulf of Venice, and
was returning from a twelve-hours' patrol flight when she sighted
the Austrian destroyer. So intent was the latter on her pursuit of
the seized motor-boat that she failed to notice the "Avenger," the
noise of the latter's aerial propellers being out-voiced by the
noise of the destroyer's engines. A powerful bomb, dropped with
unerring accuracy, did the trick most effectually and so rapidly
that the majority of the hostile crew had no idea of what strafed
them. Literally blown in two amidships the ill-fated craft had
foundered with all hands.

"You'll be home again in three or four days with reasonable luck,
Mr. Sylvester," observed Barcroft. "The train service is absolutely
rotten, but I suppose it's the stock excuse--'owing to the war.'
After three years of captivity I suppose you won't mind three days
in a railway carriage."

"It will feel like three centuries," declared the Moke seriously.
"The sudden change from being a fugitive in a hostile country to a
free man is so bewildering that I know I shall be grousing every
minute of the journey. By Jove! If ever I get home I don't think
I'll want to go outside England for the rest of my natural life.
Wonder what London's like? According to the Boche guards at
Ruhleben, half the city is in ruins, 25 per cent. of the population
are blown to bits, and the remaining 75 per cent. are either
cowering in the Tubes or else have bolted for the country to get
away from the Gothas."

Barcroft laughed. There was a confident ring in his merriment.

"London was much the same when I was there last," he observed. "What
say you, Farrar? In one or two places it looks as if the L.C.C.
workmen have started to pull down some buildings instead of pulling
up the roadway. I went on a 'bus from Fulham to the Bank, and never
saw a sign of damage. As for the population having cold feet--here,
read this, it's a letter from a girl friend of my wife's; sixteen I
think's her age."

The flight-lieutenant drew a crumpled envelope from his pocket and
handed it to the Moke.

The letter was written in pencil as follows:


               "DRAMATIS PERSONAE
  GERMAN 'PLANES             LONDON AIR DEFENCE
  BOMBS--A BEASTLY ROW       SHRAPNEL
            AND THE FAMILY OF RAMSHAW

  _Time_--9.15 p.m. _Place_--The wine cellar of No. 445,
   Russeldish Square. _Play_--"The Tin Kettles of London."


"_Act I, Scene I._--Peggy is asleep on the mattress that is kept
down here." ("Peggy is her sister, aged nine," explained Barcroft.)
"I have a few dozen bottles of champagne in front of me, so if my
writing gets a bit wobbly you will know the cause. Golly! They are
making a beastly row; I shall go deaf in a minute. A policeman tore
along the road just now, ringing his bicycle bell and shouting,
'Take cover,' so we adjourned to our dugout as usual. The housemaid
is shaking like a jelly. I hope she won't collapse on top of poor
me.

"_Act I, Scene II._--Crash.... That's some of our glass gone--that
means another piece of shrapnel, hip, pip. In the last raid we had
some glass broken in the kitchen skylight, and afterwards I had a
gorgeous find--a piece of shell weighing three-quarters of a pound.

"_Act II, Scene I._--There's an aeroplane going overhead--a moment
of suspense. Bang!... A bomb next door by the sound of it, but I
expect it's really a good way away. It's ten o'clock now, so they've
been at it for three-quarters of an hour--what an age I'm taking to
write this letter, but I stop every minute to listen to the
orchestra playing a selection which varies between the big drum
(bombs) and the kettle-drums (guns). Please excuse the writing and
the pencil, but there are nine of us squashed into about eight
square feet, with hardly any ventilation. Do you think that the
motor of your laid-up car would drive an air-fan? Because, if so,
you might send it to us and I could rig it up before to-morrow
night, as we have been down here at least once every night this
week, and I expect we shall continue to do so until the end of this
moon.

"_Act II, Scene II_.--There's another aeroplane. They always seem to
spend ages going over this house.

"10.15.--We're been down here an hour and Fritz's still going
strong, like Johnny Walker. There's a motor-ambulance going past.

"10.20.--A lull in the operations.

"10.35.--Just been out to look for shrapnel, but could not find any.
Molly" ("the second sister," explained Barcroft) "is still out
there; so are most of the neighbours, in airy evening dress.
The 'All Clear' signal has not been given, but there's no more
firing.

"10.45.--'All Clear' just sounded, and I'm off to bed, so
good-night.

                                            "DIANA.

"P.S.--A policeman has just come to say, that they have been driven
off, but they may come back again, so the 'All Clear' signal has
been cancelled.

"_Sunday morning_.--The 'All Clear' signal was not given last night
till 1 o'clock.

                                            "DIANA."

"Well?" inquired Billy, as the Moke handed back the letter. "What do
you think of that? Not bad for a sixteen year old, eh?"

"A girl to be proud of, Barcroft," replied Sylvester. "British to
the core. By Jove! I can see a German fräulein writing a letter like
that and under similar conditions--I don't think."

"And," added Barcroft, "it shows the true drift of public opinion.
Thanks to the absurd restrictions of a rotten censorship all sorts
of vague and inaccurate rumours float around. You cannot muzzle
millions of people, you know. Consequently it is the froth that
floats on the surface--the vapourings of irresponsible individuals
of excitable temperament. That which matters most--evidences of the
calmness and steadfastness of the bulk of the population in the
danger areas--is only occasionally revealed by such means as this.
Yes, Diana is a topping example of British grit and courage."

"Any stunts lately?" asked Farrar.

Barcroft shook his head.

"Not counting the destroyer we've just done in, we haven't had a
decent strafe for nearly a week. I can't imagine where Fritz hangs
his hat and coat up about here. There are dozens of U-boats in the
Mediterranean. It is certain that they put into the Adriatic for
repairs and replenishing stores, but where, goodness only knows.
We've tried Trieste, Pola, and Fiume, and drawn blank. I'd like to
meet some one who could give me the tip."

"You have," remarked the sub quietly.

"Who--where?" demanded the flight-lieutenant.

"This child," replied Farrar, nudging his own ribs. "I'd recognise
the place at once. It's somewhere behind the islands off the
Dalmatian coast."

"By the Lord Harry!" ejaculated Billy Barcroft explosively. "We'll
land Sylvester and Little Willie, fill up with bombs and petrol, and
you'll pilot me to the U-boat base. Farrar, my bird, we'll have a
glorious stunt and the most gorgeous strafe on record. Game?"

"Rather," replied the sub enthusiastically.




CHAPTER XXXIII

THE GREAT STRAFE


BILLY BARCROFT would have been disagreeably surprised had the
R.N.V.R. sub given him an answer in the negative. He was perfectly
aware that Nigel Farrar was rightfully entitled to be sent home on
leave, following his escape from an enemy country. Yet, with
characteristic impetuosity and zeal, Farrar had jumped at the offer
to guide the "Avenger" to the secret U-boat base, and incidentally
"get his own back."

In less than twenty minutes the flying-boat returned to her base.
Barcroft made his report and obtained the squadron-commander's ready
permission to attempt another stunt. Sylvester, rigged out in new
civilian clothing and taking the baron's uniform with him as a
souvenir, lost no time in catching the first train to Milan, where,
with luck, he might join the through express to Paris--and home.

"You'll look me up directly you arrive home on leave, old man?" he
asked, when Farrar bade him farewell and a speedy journey, knowing
perfectly well that the latter wish was almost as hopeless as asking
for the moon.

"I'll certainly look you up before I rejoin my ship," replied the
sub evasively.

The Moke regarded his chum curiously.

"Wonder what the move is?" he asked himself. "Farrar's people aren't
in England. He has no relatives there as far as I am aware of. I
wonder--ah! the sly dog!"

As soon as the flying-boat had replenished her petrol tanks, taken
on board a stock of bombs and trays of ammunition, the flight began.
Barcroft was anxious to carry out the stunt in broad daylight. With
reasonable luck he hoped to be back again by sunset.

The "Avenger" was not alone. Following in V-shaped formation were
four of her sister craft, their load of bombs aggregating a little
more than a ton. They flew high--between 8,000 and 10,000 feet--with
very little noise: the motors were effectively silenced, and only
the purr of the pistons and the whirr of the huge propellers
disturbed the stillness of the rarefied atmosphere.

High over the Istrian coast they flew, keeping above, but just
inside, the chain of islands that had proved more than once the
salvation of a hard-pressed hostile vessel.

Presently Farrar pointed to a ridge of mountains slightly on the
"Avenger's" port bow.

"That's the show," he declared. "I recognise it by the conical
peaks."

"Sure?" asked Barcroft dubiously. "I've flown all along the coast
and across those hills, but not a trace of a U-boat base did I
twig--and I was mighty particular. Searched every inlet with my
binoculars. Not a sign of a wharf, workshop, or anything of that
nature."

"I'll eat my hat if I'm wrong," said the sub confidently, as he
reached for a pair of powerful glasses. "There you are! See those
patches of green in the water?"

"Yes," admitted Barcroft. "They were there last time. Reeds on the
mudbanks."

"Camouflage," corrected Farrar. "The whole show is covered with
boughs and branches to escape aerial observation. Each of those
patches screens a Fritz."

"Does it, by Jove!" ejaculated the flight-lieutenant. He swung round
and nodded significantly to his second-in-command. Not a word was
exchanged between Barcroft and Kirkwood. Old hands at the strafing
business each seemed to know instinctively the other's mind.

A slight depression of the horizontal rudders, a faint click as the
ignition was switched off, and the "Avenger" commenced her two-mile
glide, descending to two thousand feet, her consorts following her
example.

Fascinated, Farrar leant over the side of the hull. This sort of
warfare was new to him. It seemed a very one-sided business, for not
a shot was fired from the enemy base. Optically there was little to
be noted--merely a forked arm of the sea with an island lying almost
athwart the entrance, a range of hills enclosing the water, and a
number of what appeared to be patches of verdure on the surface of
the harbour and also on the sloping ground on the east side.

Suddenly the motor fired again. The flyingboat, quivering under the
powerful pulsations, changed her volplane to a horizontal movement,
Simultaneously Kirkwood released the first bomb.

For several hundred feet Farrar could follow its descent, until it
became a mere speck against the dark green background. Then another,
and yet another missile started in its devastating career.

A cloud of smoke, dwarfed to the size of a mushroom, announced that
the first bomb had got home fairly in the centre of the seaward tier
of moored U-boats. Like the rending of a veil the camouflage
vanished, revealing to sight seven of the modern pirates and an
ominous gap in the centre.

There was plenty of activity now. Men looking like ants swarmed
everywhere, emerging from the interiors of the Unterseebooten and
making for the doubtful shelter of dry land. Others, hesitatingly,
began to cast off bow and stern ropes, with the evident intention of
taking the trapped submarines into deep water and there
submerging until the danger was past.

The rapid shower of bombs completely frustrated their attempt. Long,
cigar-shaped hulls were shattered asunder, the floating pontoons
smashed to matchwood, as the five flying-boats manoeuvred to keep
above their much-desired objective.

Once during the strafing operations Farrar glanced at the
"Avenger's" skipper. Barcroft, his set features absolutely
unperturbed, was steering the flying-boat as coolly as if he had the
whole atmosphere to himself, notwithstanding that four other swiftly
moving aircraft were describing apparently erratic circles and
curves at a reduced rate of about fifty miles an hour within a
radius of half a mile. It was an aerial gymkana, in which the merest
collision would inevitably result in a tremendous crash, yet the
strafing continued systematically and continuously.

A few bombs struck the surface of the water, but direct hits were
numerous and devastating. Of the twenty-four submarines only three
remained afloat. Some might have been submerged by design on the
part of their crews. Even then they stood a poor chance against the
enormous concussion of the powerful missiles. Even a buffer of
twenty feet of water was unable to save the steel hulls from being
shattered.

Ashore three distinct fires had been started, two in the sand-bagged
and camouflaged workshops, the third in a large liquid-fuel store,
from which the flames were mounting a couple of hundred feet in the
air. Crowds of German and Austrian soldiers, sailors and workpeople,
driven from their futile shelters, were running in all directions,
and still the bombs dropped remorselessly and destructively.

A passive spectator Farrar felt not the slightest qualms. A woodman
destroying a nest of young adders could not have shown less
compunction. The cold-blooded murderous record of the U-boats had
put them without the pale. Stamped with the brand of Cain, every
man's hand was against them, Allies and neutrals alike, for the
modern pirates, compared with whom Morgan, Lolonois, and Gramont
were gentlemen, had roused the indignation and horror of the
civilised world.

"No eggs left!" reported Kirkwood laconically.

Barcroft nodded. The other flying-boats had also exhausted their
stocks of bombs, but their task was not yet done. Photographs
showing the damage done had to be taken, from which enlargements
were to be subsequently made in order to confirm the observer's
reports.

Although the members of the Royal Air Force are the least given to
exaggeration, there have been instances in which observers have
unintentionally overrated the damage done by their bombs. Objects
seen through dust and smoke are apt to appear different from what
they actually are, while in the tension and excitement of a raid a
casual glance might convey an erroneous impression on the mind, upon
which inaccurate reports are based. But the camera, emotionless and
strictly impartial, records the scene with absolute fidelity; hence
the importance of photography as a necessary adjunct to the airman's
panoply of war.

Suddenly a cloud of white smoke mushroomed a few hundred feet below
the "Avenger." Another leapt seemingly from nothingness at an
unpleasantly short distance on her quarter. The anti-aircraft guns
were getting into action at last, and the strafe no longer promised
to be a one-sided business.

Soon the "air was stiff" with flying shrapnel, while shells of a
hitherto unknown type added to the flying-boats' peril. These
missiles, on bursting, liberated long tentacles of the lightness of
silk that floated in strings of fire in the air.

A burst of shrapnel, seemingly close under the "Avenger's" nose,
caused the flying-boat to pitch and roll like a tramp in ballast in
a heavy seaway. Before Barcroft could get her under control the
uppermost of the triplanes was foul of one of the burning tentacles.

The bight of the flaming tendril engaged against the forward
knife-edge of the plane, while the ends, swept backwards by the rush
of the flying-boat through the air, swung together like a
gigantic streamer of flame in the "Avenger's" wake.

No manoeuvre could possibly extricate the flying-boat from the fiery
embrace. A tail-spin, instead of enabling the plane to back away
from the tentacle, would result in the streaming ends winding
themselves round the spread of canvas; while in addition the falling
aircraft would lose all advantage of altitude ere she recovered from
the "spin."

Although the fabric of the planes was supposed to be of
fire-resisting material the prepared canvas was already smoking and
charring. Like a flash Farrar realised the danger. The time had come
for him to act, and with characteristic alacrity he seized upon the
chance.

Swarming aloft, with a knife between his teeth, he gained the upper
plane. The windage was terrific, smoke and embers were swept into
his face, the heat scorched his hair. Hanging on like grim death
with one hand he slashed at the fiercely-burning tow, through the
centre of which a fine flexible wire maintained cohesion of the
deadly firebrand. Hacking fiercely at the wire, regardless of the
flames that ate into his hand, his efforts were rewarded by the
sight of the severed tentacle disappearing like a streak of
lightning in the wake of the swiftly moving planes.

Then, and only then, did the burning pain assert itself. All power
to move seemed to have vanished from his arm. Muscles and sinews
were completely numbed, while the tightly contracted flesh throbbed
and plunged with the excruciating torture of the livid burns.

"I'm in the cart this time," he muttered, wincing with the agony of
the fire. "Hanged if I can climb back again, and the plane's still
smouldering."

Vainly he endeavoured to smother the charring fabric. His right arm
was as helpless as that of a new-born babe. Stealthily, yet
steadily, the patch of calcined canvas was increasing. At any
moment, fanned by the terrific draught, it might burst into flames.

Then he became aware of some one lying flat beside him: of Kirkwood
drenching the burning plane with a fire-extinguishing chemical, of
the spray of the liquid blowing back into his face.

"That's settled it, by Jove!" shouted Kirkwood in the sub's ear.
"Nip on down. Can't? Here, let me give you a hand."

As in a dream the injured officer found himself assisted to the hull
of the flying-boat. She had left the bursts of shrapnel far astern
and was heading homewards. Her consorts were also returning--all
four.

"Good man!" exclaimed Barcroft admiringly, as Farrar gained the
deck. "What, hit?"

The sub shook his head. Everything was growing very dim and misty.

"Not at all!" he replied, his voice sounding strange and distant.
"Not at all. A great strafe, wasn't it?"

"Mind his hand, Billy," exclaimed some one warningly--also dim and
distant seemed his voice. "It's pretty bad."

Barcroft was only just in time to save the injured sub from dropping
inertly at his feet as merciful oblivion overtook him.




CHAPTER XXXIV

AND LAST


"CHEER-O, Slogger!"

"Cheer-o, Moke!"

These, the curt but nevertheless brimful of meaning exchange of
greetings when, four weeks later, Farrar and Sylvester met at
Southampton Docks.

The sub's right hand was still swathed in surgical dressings,
otherwise in appearance he was much the same as of yore, except that
on the breast of his uniform coat he wore the ribbon of the
Distinguished Service Order and the Distinguished Service Cross, for
the young R.N.V.R. officer had pulled off a double event. The former
distinction had been awarded for his services in strafing Fritz, the
latter for conspicuous gallantry in extinguishing the flames that
threatened to destroy the "Avenger" in mid-air.

"Congrats, old bird!" said the Moke heartily. "I saw the
announcement in _The Gazette_. Now, how about it? You're coming back
to Lynbury with me, I absolutely insist, and my people are expecting
you. That's why I broke my journey from Waterloo."

Ten minutes previously Farrar would have firmly declined the
invitation, but in his pocket reposed a recently opened telegram
which read:

"Welcome home; we are returning to The Old Croft on Monday, when we
shall be delighted to see you. Bruno awaits you. Winifred."

And the day was Friday. Three whole days, and then----

"Right-o," he replied to his chum's pressing invitation. "I'm on it,
but I'll have to leave by the first train on Monday."

"What for?" demanded the astonished Sylvester. "Come, come, Slogger,
why these unusual blushes that suffuse your cherubic visage? Do I
tumble to it? Miss Greenwood? More congrats, you sly dog!"

"Yes," replied Farrar. "And I am the luckiest fellow in the whole
wide world. Hullo, here's another old pal! Forgot to mention it
before."

He indicated a young officer, upon whose sleeve two rings and a curl
denoted that he was of the rank of lieutenant. He was limping
slightly as he gripped the rail of the gangway with one hand and
leant heavily upon a stick.

The Moke looked at the lieutenant, and then at the sub.

"Hanged if I can fix him," he remarked dubiously. "No, surely not?"

"Yes, it's Holcombe," declared Farrar. "Holcombe, my festive, you
remember the Moke?"

"Good old Lynbury times," exclaimed Holcombe, grasping Sylvester's
outstretched hand. "Of course I do. But, my word, Moke, you've
altered some! Had a rotten time in Germany, I understand from
Slogger; and a pretty exciting time the pair of you had in breaking
out. What are you doing now?"

"Oh, just run down to have a pow-pow with Slogger," replied
Sylvester. "You're coming along with us too, Holcombe. The more the
merrier, if you don't mind nut-butter and a concoction of sawdust
and Epsom Salts which we are beguiled into eating under the name of
war-bread."

"Holcombe means, what are you doing to earn your rations, Moke?"
interposed Farrar.

"They've pushed me into the Foreign Office," explained Sylvester.
"Suppose they imagined that my experience in Germany might be of
service. You see, I know a good deal of the internal conditions
before war broke out."

"Just the sort of chap to do some good," replied Holcombe. "You'll
be in the Corps Diplomatique yet--the Diplomatic Corpse as our old
friend the Lynbury guard remarked on one occasion. Wonder if he's
still in charge of the Lynbury and Marshton express?"

"Don't know, I'm sure," said the Moke. "But we'll soon find out."

"By the bye," remarked Holcombe, "have you heard anything about von
Gobendorff?"

"Shot in the Tower," replied Farrar laconically. "Thank goodness I
wasn't knocking around to be called to give evidence at the court
martial."

"You may be in a similar stunt, old boy," rejoined Holcombe. "One of
our light cruisers disabled a brand-new U-boat last Monday. They
managed to save about a dozen of the crew before she sank. Amongst
them was her skipper--guess who?"

"Not von Loringhoven?"

"Right first shot," exclaimed Holcombe. "It was von Loringhoven, and
he had the wind up properly. I don't think that he'll get away in a
hurry this time."

When at length the three churns changed trains at Marshton Junction
they found their old favourite of school days still on duty.

"Know you, Mr. Sylvester? Of course I do. And you are one of the
Corpse, I hear?"

"Not yet, guard," said the Moke hurriedly. "Still, getting on that
way. Do you recognise these gentlemen?"

"Bless my soul, sir, it's Mr. Holcombe and Mr. Farrar! You a captain
yet, sir?"

"Like my friend Sylvester I'm getting on that way," explained
Holcombe. "And here's our modest hero coming down to Lynbury with
two little bits of ribbon, you see."

"What be they for, sir?" asked the veteran guard.

"Oh--er--just for doing something in the way of strafing Fritz,"
replied Nigel Farrar.


                                THE END


   -------------------------------------------------------------
  _Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._
    




  [Transcribers notes:

    This book contains a number of misprints.
    The following misprints have been corrected:

    [and it's a deal," re-rejoined] ->
        [and it's a deal," rejoined]
        
    [The "Tantalus" was slowy foundering.] -> 
        [The "Tantalus" was slowly foundering.]
        
    [{Illustration: "SEIZING FARRER BEGAN TO HAUL] ->
        [{Illustration: "SEIZING FARRAR, BEGAN TO HAUL]

    [whether there were any news] ->
        [whether there was any news]

    ["Afir-el Bahr" had been] ->
        ["Afir-el-Bahr" had been]
        
    [the danger done by their bombs.] ->
        [the damage done by their bombs.]

    Not corrected, but interesting to mention, is another
    misprint on the spine:
    
      the spine shows the title: [THE FRITZ STRAFFERS] 
      but of course that should be: [THE FRITZ STRAFERS]

    A few cases of punctuation errors were corrected
    but are not mentioned here.
  ]