whetted his appetite for a trip beyond the bar, and for the present his
wishes in that direction were thwarted.  Owing to the war-time
conditions, no pleasure-boat or yacht was permitted to leave the
spacious inland cruising-ground.

Time after time, Leslie watched with yearning eyes the brown-sailed
fishing-fleet steal past the patrol-boats guarding the entrance, and
glide seaward to the fishing-ground off the Dolphin Bank. For the most
part, the boats were manned by grey-bearded stalwarts and young boys,
worthy descendants of Harry Page, Thompson, and other Poole fishermen
whose prowess against the French is still remembered by the inhabitants
of the Dorset seaport.  Already the British navy had claimed almost
every able-bodied fisherman of fighting age, and nobly the men had
responded to the call, leaving grandfathers and grandsons to work the
boats in the open waters of the English Channel.

At last Leslie found an opportunity.  Getting on the right side of old
"Garge" Cottenham, owner and master of the five-ton smack _Fidelity_, he
prevailed upon that worthy to allow him to make an all-night trip to the
fishing-grounds.

Unfortunately the admiral did not see eye to eye with his energetic son.
Even Leslie’s declaration that he would be assisting in a work of
national importance by helping to provide the nation’s food left him
unmoved.  As a last resource the lad appealed to Jack, who had just
arrived upon the scene for the week-end.

"Isn’t the harbour good enough for him?" asked Admiral Sefton.

"You don’t get the lift of the open sea, you know, Pater," replied the
sub.  "Leslie’s got the old instinct, you see."

"S’pose so," admitted his parent.  "A couple of centuries of sea life is
bound to tell, eh?  All the same, I don’t like the idea of the boy
knocking about in a smack.  He’ll get into a dozen scrapes, and end up
by tumbling overboard and getting mixed up in the trawl.  Now if I were
there to look after him----"

The admiral paused.  Had old Garge Cottenham extended the invitation to
him, the bluff old sea-dog could not have resisted the call of the
sea--e’en were it through the medium of a five-ton smack.  Between the
man who in the splendour of a gold-laced uniform had directed the
movements of a fleet and the other who grasped the tiller of a grubby
fishing-boat existed a common tie--that mysterious and overpowering
freemasonry of the sea.

On second thoughts, Admiral Sefton remembered his comfortable bed and
well-ordered repast, comparing them with the discomforts of a night
afloat and relatively hard fare.

Here Jack stepped nobly into the breach.

"Perhaps the kid wouldn’t object if I went with him," he suggested.
"Not keen on it, you know, but----"

And so it came to pass that when Leslie coaxed his big brother the
latter capitulated.

"But what if your fisherman pal declined to ship me with him?" he added.

"No fear," replied Leslie.  "I’ll make that all right; only don’t tell
him you’re an officer."

"Oh, for why?" enquired the sub.

"I don’t know exactly," was his brother’s reply. "Somehow I fancy Old
Garge doesn’t like naval officers."

Wherein Leslie was correct.  Years ago Skipper Cottenham had fallen foul
of the lieutenant-in-charge of a revenue cutter, and the memory of the
meeting still rankled.

After lunch Leslie made his way to the quay, returning in an hour’s time
with the information that Old Garge didn’t object (he was not over
anxious to avail himself of a supposed amateur’s offer of assistance),
and that the _Fidelity_ would cast off at seven o’clock that evening.

Clad in an old pair of serge trousers and a brown sweater, and carrying
an oilskin coat that, despite the maker’s guarantee, stuck tenaciously
wherever it was folded, the sub accompanied his wildly-excited brother
to the steps, where a boat was in readiness to convey them to the smack.

In the boat was a freckled, chubby-faced, flaxen-haired youngster of
about thirteen, whom Leslie introduced to his brother as Tim,
great-grandson of the owner and master of the registered fishing-boat
_Fidelity_.

"Where’s the _Fidelity_ lying?" enquired the sub, after the youngster
had sculled the heavy boat for nearly two hundred yards.

"Down Stakes," was the mysterious reply. "Us’ll see her in a minute or
so, when us gets round t’bend."

Working the long single oar vigorously, and aided by the strong ebb
tide, Tim quickly urged the heavy boat along.

"There he be," he announced.  "Third in the row from here."

Sefton looked in the direction indicated.  The fishing-fleet was already
making preparations for a start.  Most of the boats had their mainsails
set. Two or three had already slipped moorings, and were gliding down
the main channel under the lee of the wooded Brownsea Island.

With the practised eye of a true seaman, the sub realized that, in spite
of her sombre garb of grey paint, mottled with tar marks, the _Fidelity_
was "all a boat".

With a sharp entry and fine run aft, noticeable despite the squat stern
and heavy transom, the smack showed every promise of speed combined with
stiffness.  Built with a view of encountering the short steep seas of
Poole Bar, she was typical of the weatherly boats that have justly
earned a splendid reputation for seaworthiness.

"Evenin’!" was Old Garge’s greeting.  "Come aboard.  Look alive, Tim,
an’ make fast the boat’s painter.  Then do ’ee cast off.  There’s Bill
Moggridge an’ Peter Wilson under way already.  Us mustn’t let ’em get
across t’ Bar ahead of the _Fidelity_."

Quickly, as the result of much practice, young Tim cast off the heavy
mooring-chain from the bitts, and trimmed the head-sails.  Heeling
slightly to the light south-westerly breeze the smack gathered way,
leaving hardly a ripple in her wake as she glided almost noiselessly
through the calm water.

The sub revelled in the movement.  Vividly it recalled long-past days in
the _Britannia’s_ cutters, racing in the landlocked estuary of the Dart.
Since then opportunities for fore-and-aft sailing had been few and far
between.  Contrasted with the terrific vibration of a swiftly moving
destroyer, the gentle movement was peaceful and soothing.

A short spell of close-hauled work, as the smack tacked towards the
entrance, was followed by a run, full and by, down the buoyed channel to
the bar buoy.  From the heights above Studland a stiff breeze swept
down, causing the water to foam at the _Fidelity’s_ sharp stem.

"That be good!" ejaculated Old Garge.  "Us be overtakin’ them," and he
nodded in the direction of the two boats that were still leading by less
than a cable’s length.  "Wind’ll drop afore long, I’s afraid."

"It will go down with the sun," said Sefton. "But we’ll get the first of
the east-going tide outside."

The skipper of the _Fidelity_ stared at his guest. Already he had come
to the conclusion that the tall bronzed young fellow was no mere
landlubber. The sub’s deliberate pronunciation of the word "tackle"
during a previous conversation had told him that.

"Patrol," announced the skipper laconically, indicating a steam trawler
as she rounded the detached chalk pinnacle known as "Old Harry". "She’s
there to keep Garmin submarines away, you know.  Ever seen a Garmin
submarine, mister?"

"Have you?" enquired Sefton, countering the old fellow’s curiosity.

"Only one, and ’er was no good to nobody," replied Old Garge.  "They
sunk ’er away down Christchurch Bay.  Seed the navy chaps a-getting her
up, only the patrol boat ordered me away. That was away back last
summer.  Since then they submarines ’ave given this part a wide berth."

"I’d like to see one getting properly strafed," declared Leslie.  "What
would you do, Jack, if one showed its nose up just now?"

"Chuck it," ejaculated the sub good-humouredly. "We’re supposed to be on
the way to the fishing-ground, not chasing U boats.  Hallo!  There’s The
Needles Light."

By this time the sun had set in a haze of vivid crimson.  Against the
dark grey of the eastern sky, the coastwise lights of The Needles and
St. Catherine’s were beginning to assert their presence in the rapidly
waning twilight.  Contrary to expectation the breeze still held,
although under the shadow of Hengistbury Head, bearing three miles to
the nor’ard, a number of fishing-craft lay completely becalmed.

"Evenin’, Peter!" shouted Old Garge cordially, as the _Fidelity_ drew
ahead of the hitherto leading boat.  Peter waved his arm in reply.  His
response was not so cordial, seeing that his boat had been outstripped,
greatly to the glee of Leslie and young Tim.

For the next quarter of an hour all hands were busily engaged in paying
out the nets.  Then, under triced-up mainsail, the smack floundered
slowly through the water, towing the length of fishing-gear astern.

The first haul produced very indifferent results. Leslie began to think
that it was poor sport, since the catch consisted of less than a dozen
medium-sized whiting and a couple of small bass.  Nor did the second
cast fare much better.

"’Tes this east’ly wind we’ve a-been havin’ that’s done the mischief,"
explained the skipper of the _Fidelity_.  "I thought when it veered we’d
be in luck.  Howsomever, we’ll have another shot."

Again the nets were paid out, and the smack, hampered with her tow,
stood off in the direction of the distant St. Catherine’s Light.

"Mighty slow, isn’t it?" confided Leslie to his brother.  "Wish Old
Garge would up nets and make for home.  Sailing’s all right, but this
almost bores me stiff."

"Patience!" rejoined Sefton.  "This is your choice.  How would you care
to go fishing for months, blow high, blow low?  No matter whether it be
summer or winter, you’ve got to go on fishing--fishing for a brute that
will bite you pretty hard at the first favourable opportunity."

"You mean submarines?" asked the lad.  "I should like to see one.  It
must be fine sport."

"Not on board this hooker, though," added the sub.  "Give me something
that can hit back."

Force of habit made the young officer glance to windward.  He would not
have been altogether surprised had a pair of twin periscopes appeared
above the surface of the moonlit water.  After all, he reflected, there
wasn’t much chance of that. The fishing-ground was well out of the
recognized steamer tracks.  A U boat, especially in the English Channel,
where she ran an almost momentary risk of destruction, would not waste
time over the shallow Dolphin Bank to look for insignificant
fishing-smacks.  Still, Hun submarines did erratic things sometimes.

Then the sub laughed at his fancies.  The possibility was so remote that
he ridiculed the suggestion.

Meanwhile Old Garge had disappeared under the half-deck.  A wreath of
smoke from the dilapidated iron chimney, and the banging of several iron
utensils, announced the fact that he was preparing some sort of repast.
Tim, mechanically sawing the tiller to and fro, kept the smack on her
course.

The _Fidelity_ was now well to the east’ard of the rest of the fleet.  A
couple of miles separated her from the nearmost of the brown-sailed
boats, whose dark canvas showed up distinctly in the slanting rays of
the moon.

"We’re giving them the slip, aren’t we?" enquired Leslie, indicating the
still busily engaged smacks.

Tim glanced over his shoulder.

"Granfer," he called out; "we’m a long way down t’ east’ard.  Shall us
up nets?"

"No; you just carry on," replied Old Garge, his voice muffled in the
confined space.  "I’ll be with you in a minute.  I’m fair busy just
now."

Another half-hour passed, but the skipper still remained out of sight.
The wind had now dropped, and the smack, with her main-sheet slacked
right off, floundered heavily, dipping her boom-end at every roll.
Already the day was breaking beyond the chalk cliffs of the Isle of
Wight.  Momentarily, the search-lights from The Needles Channel
batteries were growing fainter in the grey dawn.

"Isn’t it grand!" exclaimed Leslie, inspired by the sight of daybreak at
sea.

The sub merely shrugged his shoulders.  Untold spells of duty as officer
of the watch had made him regard the spectacle with complete
indifference.

But the next instant Jack Sefton’s lassitude fell from him like a
discarded mask, for, at less than a hundred yards on the _Fidelity’s_
port quarter, appeared the pole-like periscopes of a submarine.

CHAPTER XX--Captured

For a few seconds the optics of the submerged craft remained trained
upon the isolated smack. Although the submarine was forging slowly
ahead, the periscopes rose no higher out of the water. Evidently those
in charge of the vessel were not anxious to rise to the surface until
they had satisfied themselves that it was fairly safe to do so.

His attention attracted by his brother’s fixed gaze, Leslie sprang to
his feet and grasped the weather shrouds.

"What’s that, Jack?" he asked.

"What you wanted to see--a submarine."

"One of ours?"

"Hope so," replied the sub laconically; but he had great misgivings on
that score.  Had it been a British submarine making for Portsmouth, she
would almost certainly be running on the surface, in order to make her
number before approaching the heavily-defended Needles channel.

Wildly excited, Tim forgot that he was steering and, putting the helm
down, allowed the smack to gybe "all standing".  The thud of the heavy
boom as it swung across and brought up with a violent jerk, had the
effect of making Old Garge emerge from the cuddy in a state of nautical
profanity.

"What be you up to, you young lubber?" he shouted.

"Submarine, granfer," replied his youthful relative.

"No excuse for gybing," continued the skipper. "Do you mind what you are
up to.  Where be she?"

He shaded his eyes, expecting to see one of the British "C" or "E" class
running awash. Instead, he saw only the tips of the periscopes.

"Drat it!" he ejaculated.  "’Tain’t for no good. Anyways, we’re too
small for her to trouble about we."

Apparently his conjectures were correct, for, with a feather of white
foam, and a sullen swirl well in the wake of the periscope, the
submarine disappeared wholly from sight.

"’Er’s afeard of fouling our nets," declared Old Garge.  "Now, if we
gives the patrol-boat notice, an’ that submarine is done for, there’s
fifty pun’ at least for me.  A matter of a couple o’ months back my
friend Peter----"

But what happened to Peter was a story that Jack Sefton was not
permitted to hear, for with a quick, unhesitating motion the submarine
reappeared at less than three cables’ lengths ahead of the smack.
Shaking herself clear of the water, she displayed the unmistakable
outlines of a German _unterseeboot_, although no number was visible on
her grey conning-tower.

With remarkable celerity an officer and half a dozen seamen appeared
from below, while at the same time a quick-firer was raised from its
"housing", for’ard of the conning-tower, and trained upon the luckless
_Fidelity_.

Steadily the U boat approached within hailing distance, then, making a
half-circle, slowed down on a parallel course to that of the smack.

"Fishing-boat ahoy!" shouted the German officer.  "Cut adrift your nets
and run alongside, or I’ll have to sink you."

Old Garge gave a gasp of astonishment and looked enquiringly at Jack
Sefton.

"Them nets cost a sight o’ money," he exclaimed ruefully.  "Now if I had
a gun----"

"Hurry, there!" came the stern mandate from the U boat.

"You’ll have to obey, I fancy," said the sub. "There’s no escape.
Perhaps they’ll let you off, as the smack is only a very small one.  If
you give them any lip they’ll cut up rough."

Deliberately Old Garge cut the trailing line of nets, bent the outward
part to a life-buoy and cast it overboard.  As he had remarked, nets
were expensive affairs, and he was not going to cut them adrift without
a means of recovering the gear should the Huns let him off lightly.

"Back your head-sails, Tim!" ordered the skipper, at the same time
putting the helm hard down and allowing the _Fidelity_ to come up
motionless into the wind, within a couple of yards of the bulging side
of the U boat.

"Throw us a line!" was the peremptory greeting.

Agilely a fair-haired unter-leutnant boarded the smack, followed by
three of his men.  Giving a cursory glance at the fish-well, he said
something in German to one of the seamen.  In less than a minute the
night’s haul had been transferred to the captor.

"Low-down robbers!" muttered Old Garge under his breath, but the
unter-leutnant caught the imprecation.

"Have a care," he said sternly, "or we sink your boat.  What these men?
You carry a large crew for a little ship, Captain."

"They are my men," declared Old Garge loyally.

"Perhaps," drawled the German, then, suddenly turning, he strode up to
Sefton and his brother.

"Hold your hand out!" he ordered.

Leslie sniggered.  In his opinion the uniformed Hun ought to have added
the words "Naughty boy".  The lad was enjoying the novel experience. His
one regret was that George Crosthwaite was not present to share in the
adventure.

Critically the unter-leutnant examined Jack’s extended hand.  In spite
of the fact that it was discoloured with tar, and reeked of fish, the
sub’s hand showed that it belonged to a person not of the ordinary
working class.  The long, tapering fingers, manicured nails, and absence
of horny protuberances on the palm "gave him away".

"What is your name?" demanded the German.

"Smith," replied Sefton promptly.

Again the irritating, dubious, and speculative "Per-haps".  The sub
realized that he was in a tight corner.

"What this wound--how caused?" enquired the unter-leutnant, indicating
the white scar on the young officer’s wrist--the legacy of the affair
off Jutland.  "Ach!  Shell wound, hein?  You are of military age.  Stand
aside."

In spite of the brown jersey and the soiled serge trousers, the
keen-witted Hun had come to the correct conclusion, that the tall,
bronzed man was not a genuine smack hand.  Not satisfied with the
self-styled Smith’s replies, he decided to interrogate his companion.

"Your name?" he demanded of Leslie, with a fierceness that effectually
quenched all further inclination on the part of the youth to snigger.

"Smith, too," replied Leslie.  "He’s my brother."

Again a display of palmistry.  Leslie’s hands, though grubby, were also
unmistakably unused to rough work.

"How old?"

"Fifteen?"

"You lie."

"On my word of honour," declared Leslie.

"No matter," rejoined the unter-leutnant.  "You old enough to fight.
Suppose----"

A hail came from the U boat.  Herr Kapitan had mounted the platform in
the wake of the conning-tower and was calling attention to the mist that
was bearing down in detached patches. Already the rest of the
fishing-boats were lost to sight.

"You go on board there," continued the German unter-leutnant, indicating
the submarine.  Then, turning to Old Garge, he added:

"We let you go.  Too much trouble to sink your little fischer-boat, and
you have no skiff. Stop here one hour.  If you move or make signal, then
we return and blow you to pieces.  You onderstan’?"

Without condescending to notice Tim, who was watching the course of
events with wide-open eyes, the unter-leutnant signalled to the two
Seftons to board the submarine.  Then, followed by his men, the Hun
regained his own craft.

A minute later, with Jack and Leslie prisoners of war, the U boat slid
quietly beneath the surface.

Old Garge obeyed instructions until the tips of the periscopes vanished.
Then he began to gather in the mainsheet.

"Trim your heads’ls, Tim," he ordered.  "Us’ll be off as hard as we
can."

"How about the nets, grandfer?" asked Tim.

"Can bide," declared the old man as the _Fidelity_, gathering way, sped
to give the alarm that another U boat had been active in the Channel.

Three-quarters of an hour later, the smack ran alongside one of the
patrol-boats operating in Christchurch Bay, and reported the incident.
Quickly the news was wirelessed, and a regular fleet of swift
motor-boats was soon upon the scene, while overhead a couple of
sea-planes hovered, in the hope of detecting the shadow of the U boat
against the white sandy bottom.

But in vain.  The unter-leutnant’s threat that he purposed remaining in
the vicinity for an hour was a mere piece of bluff.  Without loss of
time, the submarine was running at her maximum submerged speed in a
south-westerly direction, intent upon putting as great a distance as
possible between her and the hornets whose activities had already taken
a heavy toll from these modern pirates of the Black Cross Ensign.

U99 was one of the most recent type of _unterseebooten_. Possessing a
great radius of action, she combined the roles of mine-layer and
submerged torpedo-craft.  She was one of nine detailed for operations in
the English Channel, and, since the passage through the Straits of Dover
had long been regarded as "unhealthy" by the German Admiralty, the
flotilla had been ordered to proceed and return via the Faroe Isles and
the west coast of Ireland.

Although the U99 had disposed of her cargo of mines without
mishap--several of the German submarines having been "hoist with their
own petards"--her efforts had not met with marked success.  Beyond
torpedoing a tramp, and sinking another by gun-fire, she had failed to
carry out the work of frightfulness that had been expected of her.
Having exhausted her stock of torpedoes, and making only one effective
hit, she was on her way home.

After three hours of terrible suspense, when she found herself enmeshed
in a net somewhere off the back of the Wight--a predicament from which
she freed herself by means of the specially-devised wire-cutters on her
bows--U99 was forced to come up for a breather early in the morning.
Provisions were running short, and the sight of the solitary
fishing-smack tempted her commander to investigate, with the result that
Sub-lieutenant Sefton and his brother found themselves in the unenviable
position of prisoners in the hands of the enemy. More, they were cooped
up in a wretched U boat, faced with the possibility of being hunted by
their fellow-countrymen and consigned to Davy Jones in the undesirable
company of a crew of piratical Huns.

No wonder that Jack felt like kicking himself for having embarked upon
the ill-starred voyage in the smack _Fidelity_.

"Yes, by Jove!" he muttered.  "Here’s a pretty kettle of fish--and the
lid on with a vengeance."

CHAPTER XXI--U99

During the first hour of their captivity Jack Sefton and his brother
were left alone, locked in a narrow, ill-lighted compartment in the
after part of the submarine.  Overhead they could hear the ceaseless
clank of the steering-gear, while the crowded space within the hull
echoed to the noisy clatter of the propelling machinery.

Outwardly calm, the sub was raging furiously. Yielding to his sense of
discretion, and realizing the importance of reassuring his young
brother, he made a brave show at keeping up his spirits.  On several
occasions he had found himself in a tight corner, but now there was the
humiliation of being captured in a most ignominious fashion, without
being able to raise a hand in self-defence.

"Upon my word!" he remarked.  "Really, Leslie, you will have something
to remember. Experiences like this don’t fall to the lot of many
youngsters, you know."

"More exciting than that scrap on Blackstone," rejoined Leslie.  "Even
George would have to admit that.  Makes a fellow feel quite bucked.  But
what do they intend doing with us, I wonder?"

"Events will prove that," replied the sub gravely. "Recollect that we
have to conceal our identity as much as possible.  These chaps must not
be allowed to find out that I am a naval officer.  Hark!"

A rasping sound, as the bolt securing the door was shot back,
interrupted the conversation before Sefton had time to mature his
immediate plans. The metal panel slid open and a petty officer appeared
and spoke rapidly in German.

Drowned by the noise of the machinery, the words were inaudible, but by
the man’s gestures the prisoners clearly understood that they had to
follow him.  Along a narrow, steel-enclosed passage, then through a maze
of intricate machinery, the sub and his brother were conducted, until
they found themselves in a small cabin almost immediately underneath the
grating that formed the floor of the raised conning-tower.

"You will at once take off your clothes," ordered the petty officer.

At this unexpected command the brothers looked at each other in
surprise.  The order could not be ignored, despite its apparent
inconsequence. However unwilling to submit to the indignity, the
prisoners obeyed promptly.

Under the stern glare of the German petty officer, Jack Sefton stripped
off his brown jersey, shirt, and singlet.

"Rough luck!" he muttered.  "Now these brutes will tumble to it; my name
is marked on each of these garments."

Which was exactly what the Huns were intent upon finding out, for,
giving a keen glance at the tell-tale lettering, the petty officer
without waiting for the rest of the disrobing process made his way aft.

Sefton was not long left in doubt, for presently an officer in uniform
corresponding to that of a lieutenant-commander entered the cabin.

"So!" he exclaimed triumphantly, as he thumbed the pages of a British
Navy List.  "We fine bag have made.  ’Sefton, John B. G.’  That not the
same as Smith, hein?"

The sub vouchsafed no remark.  He felt horribly humiliated by his
position and by the easy manner in which he had been bowled out.  Also,
he realized that now the chances of the prisoners being set on board a
passing vessel had been entirely knocked on the head.

"We take you back to Zhermany," continued the kapitan of the submarine.
"Day after to-morrow we land you at Wilhelmshaven at exactly nine
o’clock."

The day after to-morrow--at nine o’clock.  That would be Monday, and at
that hour Sefton was due for "divisions" at Portsmouth Naval Barracks.
The irony of his position ate into his soul.

"If not, you will be a corpse at the bottom of the sea," rejoined the
German pointedly.  "Now get your clothes on, and take good care to
yourselves behave."

The kapitan quitted the cabin, leaving Sefton and his brother to resume
their garments.  This they did in silence, for Leslie had noticed his
brother’s despondency and chagrin.

Except for the periods when they were ordered forward for meals, the
prisoners were left severely alone.  Of the passing of time they had but
a remote idea, since the sub had wisely left his watch ashore before
proceeding on the ill-starred trip in the _Fidelity_.  Certain it was
that, for nearly twelve hours, U99 remained submerged, running on her
electric power.

Then she rose to the surface.  The petrol engines were coupled up, and
at an increased speed the submarine proceeded, in what direction Sefton
had no idea.  Without means of consulting a compass, and confined below,
he was in total ignorance of the vessel’s course.

At length, dead-tired, for neither of the twain had slept the previous
night, Jack and Leslie threw themselves down on the floor.  There was no
need for bedding.  The heat of the confined space was too oppressive for
that.  For a long while the sub tossed uneasily on his hard couch,
finally dropping off into a fitful slumber.

He was awakened by a seaman shaking him vigorously.  For some moments he
was unable to realize his surroundings.  Sleeping in the hot and almost
fetid air had benumbed his brain.  He felt fuddled, his eyes seemed
strained and dim, his throat burned painfully.

"On deck for exercise," ordered the man, speaking in German.

Sefton staggered to his feet, feeling stiff and cramped in his limbs.
Leslie was still asleep, and when disturbed took even longer than his
brother to be fully aroused.

"By Jove," thought the sub, "if the crew are all like this, early morn
is the time to catch them napping!  Well, here goes."

The two captives followed their jailer through an oval-shaped hatchway,
gaining the deck by means of a steel ladder.

Lounging on the long, narrow platform were more than a dozen men, some
stretched upon their backs, others lying with their heads pillowed upon
their arms, but in every case one hand was outstretched to grasp the
stanchions.  The precaution was necessary, for the boat was floundering
heavily in the long, sullen rollers.

Instinctively Sefton gave a glance in the direction of the sun.  It was
now broad daylight.  The orb of day, high in the heavens, betokened the
fact that it was approaching the hour of noon.  By the direction of the
shadows cast upon the deck, it was now apparent that the U boat’s course
was a little east of north.  Away on the starboard hand was a seemingly
interminable range of frowning cliffs, the nearmost being but two or
three miles distant. They were the rock-bound shores of Donegal.

Holding Leslie tightly by the arm, for the lad was not accustomed to the
Atlantic swell, Sefton marched him up and down the deck between the
after end of the conning-tower and the stern. Although the limited
promenade was still further curtailed by the prone bodies of the crew,
the latter paid no attention to the two prisoners.

On the platform surrounding the conning-tower was the unter-leutnant who
had ordered their arrest.  Scanning the horizon with his binoculars, he,
too, seemed indifferent to the presence of the two Englishmen.  With
him, and stationed at a small wheel in the wake of a binnacle, was a
quartermaster.  The conning-tower hatchway was closed, owing possibly to
the spray that literally swept the fore part of the submarine, and was
flung high over the domed top of the "brain of the ship".

"Where are we now?" asked Leslie.

"Off the Irish coast," replied his brother.

"Wish one of our destroyers would put in an appearance," remarked Leslie
wistfully.

The sub made no audible reply.  His views upon the matter, based upon
actual experience, told him pretty plainly that the captain of a British
war-ship would not be likely to ascertain whether there were compatriots
on board the craft he purposed to destroy.  Also, there had been fully
authenticated cases of the Huns locking the prisoners down below before
they abandoned the sinking ship. Sefton did not mind running legitimate
risks in action, but he had a strong objection to being "done in" by
British guns.

His reveries were interrupted by a shrill whistle from the
conning-tower.  Instantly the somnolent men were roused into activity.
In less than thirty seconds Sefton and his brother were tumbled below,
the decks were cleared, and the hatches closed.

By the inclination of the floor of the compartment that served as a cell
Sefton realized that the U boat was diving.  Almost at the same time
there was a muffled detonation as a 12-pounder shell, fired from a
destroyer at a distance of 7500 yards, exploded immediately above the
spot where the submarine had disappeared.

"Good heavens, she holed!" ejaculated the sub, as the U boat quivered
and dipped to an alarming angle.  Momentarily he expected to hear, above
the rattle of the machinery, the irresistible inrush of water and the
shrieks of the doomed crew.

But in this he was mistaken.  The nearness of the explosion of the shell
had urged upon the submarine’s kapitan the necessity for haste.
Thrusting the diving-planes hard down, he caused the U boat to dive with
unusual abruptness, never bringing the vessel upon an even keel until
she had descended to a depth of twelve fathoms.

The rest of the day was passed in utter monotony as far as the prisoners
were concerned.  Although it was two hours before the U boat dared to
expose the tips of her periscopes above the surface, the greater part of
the day was spent in running submerged.

Towards evening U99 ascended, and, altering course, stood in pursuit of
a small tramp.  After a short chase, for the former had the advantage of
15 knots in speed, the submarine approached sufficiently near to be able
to fire a shot close to her quarry.

Almost immediately the tramp slowed down and hoisted American colours.
It did not take U99 long to range up alongside, and the unterleutnant
and half a dozen seamen proceeded on board.

The prize was a Yankee, bound from Boston to Liverpool with a cargo of
warlike stores. According to arrangements, she should have been met and
escorted by a patrol vessel; but, although the latter was hourly
expected, something had occurred to delay her.

"We’ll have to sink you," declared the German officer.

The "old man"--a typical New Englander--shrugged his shoulders.

"Wal, I reckon yer can," he replied coolly.

"You don’t seem concerned by the fact."

"Not I, stranger.  This hyer ship an’ cargo is jest insured up to the
hilt in ’The Narragut Marine Assurance Company’.  An’ since the bulk of
the shareholders are Huns--wal, I guess it’s ’nuff said."

"Ach!  Then I suppose I must let you go," exclaimed the baffled German
officer.  "If you fall in with any British war-vessels you might tell
them that we have two Englishmen on board."

"Maybe you’d care to let us give ’em a passage?" hazarded the Boston
skipper.

"If that had been our intention we should have done so without asking a
favour," rejoined the unter-leutnant.

"Perhaps you would care to examine the ship’s papers?" enquired the
master.  His keen eyes had detected a small, swiftly moving object on
the horizon--the expected patrol boat.  Cap’n Hiram Goslow, although a
tough Republican, was quite in sympathy with the Allies.  On previous
voyages he had fallen foul of the Huns, and the treatment he had
received still rankled.  "Maybe you aren’t quite satisfied about the
’Narragut Marine Assurance Company’ stunt?"

For the next half-minute the fate of U99 with all on board trembled in
the balance.  The unterleutnant, only too pleased to have the
opportunity of finding a flaw in Captain Goslow’s statement, was about
to accept the invitation, when a warning shout from the kapitan of the U
boat brought the boarding-party scrambling on board with the utmost
alacrity.

To the accompaniment of a chorus of jeers and laughter from the American
crew, the submarine submerged and was lost to sight.

Although Jack Sefton and his brother were in ignorance of the precise
nature of the meeting with the tramp and the imperturbable Captain
Goslow, they knew by the unwonted noises and the shutting-down of the
motors that something had transpired. The sudden closing of the
hatchways, and the hasty dive taken, told the sub that once again the
ceaseless vigilance of the British navy had been responsible for a bad
quarter of an hour for the Germans.

The kapitan’s boast to the effect that his prisoners would be landed at
Wilhelmshaven at nine o’clock was an empty one.  Wildly exciting
moments, when the U boat found herself foul of a maze of steel nets,
delayed her progress, until at length U99 arrived at a position
forty-five miles N.N.W. of Heligoland.

Here a wireless message was received, the purport of which was not
hailed with any degree of enthusiasm by the weary and almost exhausted
crew.  They were on the point of completing a fortnight’s cruise of
strenuous discomfort, physical exertion, and mental strain.  Now,
instead of proceeding to Wilhelmshaven for a period of recuperation,
they were ordered to make for a certain rendezvous and await the
submarine depot-ship _Kondor_.

Officers and crew knew what this meant.  Heavy losses amongst the German
_unterseebooten_ flotillas had necessitated the U99 being pressed into
an extension of present service.  She was to replenish stores and
torpedoes, and to be attached to the submarine flotilla operating with
the High Seas Fleet. Evidently another big movement was contemplated in
the North Sea.

Something had to be done to bolster up the rapidly crumbling tissue of
lies by which the German Admiralty had gulled the Teutonic world. Never
in the history of naval warfare had a victorious fleet been compelled to
remain inactive in its home ports beyond the period necessary for
revictualling, replenishing of warlike stores, and making defects good.
Nine weeks or more had elapsed since the glorious victory off Jutland,
and still the Hun fleet clung tenaciously to its moorings.  Even the
fat-headed burghers who frequented the _bier-gartens_ of Berlin began to
realize that the crushing defeat of the British in the North Sea had not
resulted in any increase of provisions or in the abolition of the hated
food tickets.

There was a fly in the ointment.  Steps had to be taken to counteract
its baneful influence.

Almost in desperation, several German Dreadnoughts, accompanied by light
cruisers and destroyers, emerged from the Heligoland Bight. Amongst them
were the _Westfalen_ and _Nassau_, sister ships, whose scars received in
the Jutland fight had been hurriedly patched up in the Wilhelmshaven
dockyards.  Escorted by several Zeppelins, the Hun fleet steamed
westward--not to give battle, but to make an attempt to copy Beatty’s
incomparable strategy.

Night was falling when U99 made fast alongside the _Kondor_.  She was
not alone.  In the vicinity were a dozen or more _unterseebooten_ of a
similar type, awaiting wireless orders from the giant airship that was
scouting fifty miles or so in the direction of the shores of Great
Britain.

"Up on deck!" ordered the petty officer in whose particular charge the
two Seftons had been placed.

The sub and his brother obeyed promptly.  Had they lingered, their
movements would have been accelerated by a kick from the Hun’s heavy
sea-boot.

The transformation from the artificially-lighted compartment to the
rapidly gathering night made it impossible for Sefton to take in his
surroundings until his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom.  At first he
was under the impression that the submarine was berthed in harbour,
until he discerned the towering outlines of the sea-going depot-ship and
the absence of wharves and buildings.

Far away to the eastward the horizon was streaked with the
rapidly-moving search-lights of a large fleet.  The skyward-directed
rays were a direct challenge to Beatty’s squadrons.  In unlike
conditions to those of the Jutland battle, the Huns made no attempt to
steal off under cover of darkness.  They had a set purpose in exposing
their position to the British fleet.

"By Jove!" exclaimed Sefton.  "The Huns are out again.  What’s the game
this time?"

He glanced westward, half expecting to see the misty outlines of the
Grand Fleet silhouetted against the last faint streak of crimson on the
horizon, but the sky-line was unbroken.

"Hurry, pigs of Englishmen!" ordered the German petty officer,
indicating a "Jacob’s ladder" that hung from the side of the _Kondor_.
"We have had enough of you.  Soon you will see----"  He stopped
abruptly, fearing that his words might be overheard by the grim kapitan
of the submarine.

Agilely Leslie ascended the swaying rope-ladder, the sub following close
behind in case the inexperienced lad should lose his hold.  But young
Sefton acquitted himself wonderfully.  The Huns had no chance of a laugh
at his expense.

Contrary to their expectations, the two prisoners were not conducted
below.  With an armed seaman standing behind them they were stationed on
the raised poop, from whence they could see as much of the operations as
the feeble light permitted.

Promptly hoses were coupled up, pumping volumes of petrol into U99’s
tanks.  Fully charged accumulators were hoisted out and lowered down the
submarine’s after hatchway, while the for’ard hatch was opened to
receive a dozen large torpedoes closely approaching the British 21-inch
weapons.

At midnight a wireless operator handed the kapitan of the _Kondor_ a
message, the text of which caused the officer to issue a string of
orders. Quickly the hawsers securing the submarine to the depot-ship
were cast off, and U99, forging slowly ahead, picked up her station in
line with the rest of the flotilla.  Then, at a given signal, the
submarines proceeded in a north-westerly direction, while the _Kondor_
steamed toward the invisible German battleships.

At this stage of the proceedings, Sefton and his brother were ordered
below, and placed in a cell on the orlop deck, twelve feet or more below
the waterline.  In utter darkness, for even the luxury of a single light
was denied them, they sat, listening to the plash of the waves against
the side, until sleep came as a welcome relief to the strain of the day.

Several times the sub awoke with a start.  A nightmare gripped him.
Normally strong nerved, the cramped and dark cell, and the almost
certain fate that awaited him should the _Kondor_ be sunk, filled him
with vague terrors.  In vain he tried to rally himself.  The ordeal of
the shell-swept bridge of the _Calder_ seemed as naught compared with
the gruesome atmosphere of the below-water-line prison.

The hours wore on, but the unexpected torpedo attack was not
forthcoming.  No thunder of guns broke the almost uncanny silence.  No
longer the waves dashed themselves against the side plating of the hull.
Only a sullen, rolling motion and the faint tremor of the twin propeller
shafting betokened the fact that the vessel was still under way.

CHAPTER XXII--The British Submarines at Work

A succession of long-drawn hoarse cheering aroused both Seftons from
their light sleep.  Leslie’s outstretched hands came in contact with his
brother’s face, for, in the utter darkness, only the senses of touch and
speech made the twain aware of each other’s presence.

"What’s that noise, Jack?"

"Only the crew getting excited about something," replied the sub
inconsequently.  At the same time, he felt pretty certain that something
in the nature of a successful naval engagement had been responsible for
the outburst of noisy enthusiasm on the part of the German crew.

He was not left long in doubt, for the door of the cell was thrown open
and a seaman bearing a lantern ordered the prisoners to follow him.

Arriving on the upper deck, the sub discovered that the _Kondor_ had
undergone a transformation. Everything that denoted her part as a fleet
auxiliary had disappeared.  Aft she flew Swedish colours, and a
distinctive band encircled her wall sides, with the words:
"Gefle--Sverige" conspicuously displayed.  Most of the crew had
discarded their German uniform, and were rigged out in the cosmopolitan
gear usually favoured by merchant seamen.

The crew had ceased cheering, but by their bearing it was quite evident
that they were still labouring under the excitement of good news.

Pointing to a notice pinned to a board on the main hatchway, around
which several men still lingered, the seaman, who had been told off to
guard the prisoners, indicated that his charges should acquaint
themselves with the information.

"What’s it all about, Jack?" asked Leslie.

The message was the copy of a wireless report to the effect that German
submarines had been successful in torpedoing two British cruisers of the
"Chatham" class.

"Do you think it’s true?" asked young Sefton anxiously, when the sub had
translated the report.

"It may be a case of exaggeration," was the reply.  "Of course, it is
possible.  At any rate, don’t let these fellows see we are down-hearted.
Keep a stiff upper lip, old sport."

Turning their backs upon the distasteful notice-board, the two prisoners
strolled to the side, their guard following but making no attempt to
prevent them.

The _Kondor_ was not alone.  About two miles on the starboard hand, and
steaming rapidly, were the two Dreadnoughts that Sefton had noticed on
the previous day.  Behind were three light cruisers, while, still
farther astern, six sea-going torpedo-boats were tearing along in that
close formation beloved of German torpedo-flotilla officers.

As the flagship passed, she threw out a signal to the disguised
_Kondor_, which was quickly acknowledged. At the relative rates of
speed, it was certain that the battleships were overhauling the pseudo
_Gefle_ hand over fist.

Sub-lieutenant Sefton was witnessing part of the strategy of the German
High Seas Fleet.  It had ventured out with the express intention of
luring Beatty’s squadron in pursuit, knowing that the gallant Beatty
would not decline the challenge. But, with admirable discretion, the
British admiral made no effort to send the swift battle-cruisers in
pursuit, merely contenting himself by ordering the light cruisers and
destroyer flotillas to keep in touch with the retreating Huns.

There were risks of mines and torpedoes, but these were unavoidable.  By
keeping well out of the wake of the German ships, the danger of bumping
over a hastily dropped mine was obviated, while a quick use of the helm
would enable the swift cruisers to minimize the chances of successful
submarine attack.

In the early hours, the British light-cruisers and destroyers
encountered the _unterseebooten_ purposely detailed by von Hipper to
intercept the pursuing vessels.  Three, at least, of the German
submarines were sent to the bottom by gun-fire or by use of the ram;
but, unfortunately, the _Falmouth_ and _Nottingham_ fell victims to
torpedo attack.

Even as Sefton was watching the retreating warships, a column of water
was thrown high in the air close to the port quarter of the German
Dreadnought _Westfalen_.  Before the muffled roar of the explosion was
borne to his ears, the sub saw the huge battleship reel under the
terrific blow.

Regardless of the consequences, he cheered lustily; but, thrown into a
state of consternation by the magnitude of the disaster to one of their
capital ships, the crew of the _Kondor_ made no attempt to hurl the rash
Englishman to the deck.

Spellbound, they watched the throes of the stricken Dreadnought, to
whose assistance the six German destroyers were making at full speed.
As for the rest of the German battleships and cruisers, they steamed off
as hard as they could, lest a like fate should befall them.

The _Kondor_ slowed down and stood by, making no effort to close to the
aid of the torpedoed ship, while two destroyers circled aimlessly in a
vain search for the daring British submarine.

Then, very slowly, under her own steam, the _Westfalen_, with a heavy
list, crawled toward the distant German shore, the four destroyers in
her wake ready to rush alongside, and rescue the battleship’s crew,
should the vessel founder.

"Think they’ll get her back to port?" Leslie asked excitedly.

"’Fraid so," replied his brother.  "She shows no signs of an increasing
list.  A lot depends upon the condition of her bulkheads.  When the
_Marlborough_----"

Before the sub could complete the sentence, another cloud of smoke and
water shot up alongside the damaged battleship.  Lurching heavily, this
time to starboard, the _Westfalen_ was hidden from sight by a dense
volume of steam and smoke from her engine-rooms.

The attacking submarine had evidently meant to see the job done
properly.  Mindful of the risk of being sent to the bottom by the
attendant German destroyers, the British craft had stealthily exposed
her periscope for a brief instant, yet sufficient for her to send a
deadly torpedo on its errand of destruction.

By this time the crew of the _Kondor_ had come to the conclusion that
their prisoners had seen much more than was desirable.  Peremptorily
Jack and Leslie were ordered below.  The latter, unable to restrain his
delight, pointed mockingly at the boastful writing on the notice-board,
receiving a brutal kick on his shins for his temerity.

"I don’t mind, Jack," remarked Leslie, when, left alone by their
captors, the sub examined the angry abrasion on his brother’s leg.  "I’d
let them give me another hack without a murmur if I could see another
German battleship go the same way home."

After a long interval, a meal consisting of very dry tinned meat and
hunks of black bread was provided for the famished prisoners, the
unpalatable food being washed down with a pannikin of warm and insipid
water.

The unappetizing repast over, the two prisoners were again allowed on
deck.  By this time there were no signs either of the stricken
battleship or her attendant destroyers.  The _Kondor_, alone on the wide
North Sea, was steaming at about 12 knots on an easterly course.  The
rest of the crew had by now discarded their German uniforms.  There was
nothing to denote that the vessel had ever sailed under the Black Cross
Ensign of the Imperial German Navy.

Suddenly, and right in the frothing wake of the _Kondor_, appeared two
pole-like objects--the periscopes of a submarine.  Then, without the
hesitancy generally displayed by _unterseebooten_ when about to attack a
merchantman, a British submarine of the "E" class shook her
conning-tower and deck clear of the water.  Her hatches were flung open,
and a number of duffel-clad seamen appeared.  Quickly a light
signalling-mast was set up, from which two flags fluttered in the
breeze.

There was no mistaking the meaning of that yellow square flag with the
black ball, hoisted above a triangular blue pennant with a white spot.
As plainly as if a shot had been fired across the _Kondor’s_ bows, the
signal "ID" told her to "stop instantly or I will fire into you".
Besides, it saved ammunition, and the lieutenant-commander of the
submarine did not consider the prize worth powder and shot.

But the German skipper was not a man to own that the game was up without
making an effort to save himself and his ship.  A stumbling-block in his
way was Jack Sefton and his brother.

At a sign four burly Huns threw themselves upon the prisoners.  For a
full minute the sub resisted stoutly, while Leslie put up a tough
struggle against odds.  Others of the crew came to their compatriots’
aid, and, still struggling, the two captives were taken below and locked
in the cell in the for’ard hold.

CHAPTER XXIII--And Last

"There’s a bit of a dust-up on board, sir," reported Sub-lieutenant
Devereux of Submarine E--, as the British craft steadily overhauled the
_Kondor_, whose engines had already been stopped in response to the
peremptory signal.  "Fellows scrapping like billy-ho. I can just see
their heads at intervals above the taffrail."

"They can scrap as much as they like while they have the chance,"
remarked Lieutenant-Commander Huxtable grimly.  "You know your
instructions, Mr. Devereux?  Any rumpus, then signal us, and we’ll give
them our last torpedo."

A canvas collapsible boat had been brought up from below, and in this
the boarding-officer and five seamen, all armed, took their places.
Both the _Kondor_ and the submarine were almost without way, lying at
two cables’-lengths apart, E--’s two quick-firers covering the prize as
the boat made for the German vessel.

Devereux was received with well-feigned affability by the soi-disant
Swedish skipper, a politeness that the sub thought fit to reciprocate,
at least for the present.

But when Devereux had examined the supposed _Gefle’s_ papers his manner
underwent a change.

"Thanks for letting me see them, Herr Kapitan," he remarked, "but now I
must ask you to order your crew below and consider yourself a prisoner
of war.  I warn you that at any attempt at resistance your ship will be
sent to the bottom."

"But----," began the astonished Hun.  "I--I do not understand.  This
Swedish merchant-ship. You mistake make."

"Perhaps," drawled the sub.  "If I have, I’ll take full responsibility.
If you can satisfactorily explain to the British naval authorities why
you were surrounded by Hun submarines yesterday, why you supplied them
with munitions of war, why you were then His Imperial Majesty’s ship
_Kondor_, and why you are now the s.s. _Gefle_----."

"Donnerwetter!" ejaculated the German skipper furiously, then, before
Devereux could interpose, he dashed out of the chart-house and shouted
to one of the officers stationed aft.

Almost immediately a muffled explosion was heard, and the _Kondor_,
giving a violent shudder, began to settle by the stern.  Rather than
surrender, their captain had given orders for a bomb to be exploded in
the after hold.

"We have cheated you, Englishman!" he exclaimed in a shrill falsetto.

There was a wild rush for the boats.  Hastily those in davits were
lowered, with the result that one was capsized, while in the confusion a
German seaman leapt headlong into the submarine’s collapsible boat and
overturned it.

To do him credit, the kapitan made no attempt to quit the bridge.
Regarding the British officer with a leer of triumph, he waited while
the panic-stricken men got clear of the doomed ship.

Meanwhile, having witnessed the swamping of her dinghy, E--had
approached with the intention of taking off her boarding-party.

"What’s that?" exclaimed Devereux, as, during a temporary lull in the
clamour, the sound of a voice appealing for help was borne to his ears.
The words were shouted in unmistakable English.

"Someone cooped up down below, sir," declared one of the submarine’s
crew.

Devereux looked enquiringly at the German skipper of the _Kondor_.  The
latter too had heard the shout.  The self-assurance and air of
contemptuous indifference faded instantly.

"You murderous swine!" ejaculated the sub. "What dirty game have you
been up to?  Come along down below with me."

The Hun, trembling violently, clung desperately to the bridge rail.  The
risk of going below and being taken down by the sinking ship was nothing
compared with the fear of a just retribution.

It was not a suitable occasion for arguing the point.  Devereux, a huge,
loose-limbed fellow, was a giant beside the little, podgy Hun.

Wrenching the kapitan’s hand from the rail, Devereux dropped him to the
deck like a sack of flour, then, skipping down the bridge ladder, he
picked him up and carried him, screaming and struggling, down the
companion.

Guided by the sounds, the sub bore his captive for’ard, two of the
submarine’s crew following their youthful officer.

Already the stern of the _Kondor_ was almost level with the water, while
her decks inclined at a steep angle.  Above the noise of the inrushing
water and the hiss of escaping steam, could be heard the now frantic
appeal for help.

At the door of the cell Devereux was confronted by a grave problem.  The
place was locked, and the kapitan, asserting truthfully that he did not
possess a key, was clamouring incoherently that the mistake in
overlooking the fact that there were prisoners below was not his, but
that of some of his subordinates.

"Stand aside there!" shouted Devereux to the inmates of the cell.

Whipping out his revolver he sent a bullet crashing through the lock,
then, heedless of the cry of agony that came from the German skipper, he
charged the splintered door with his shoulder.

In the half light he was dimly aware that two people were scrambling
between the debris.

"Any more?" he asked.

"No," was the reply, as the two rescued men, assisted by the sailors,
reeled along the sloping alley-way to the ladder.

Having seen the would-be victims of German _Kultur_ safely on their way
to the upper deck, Devereux realized that it was quite time to make good
his own escape, for the water was beginning to surge for’ard along the
sombre orlop deck.  As he turned to make his way aft he became aware
that the kapitan, moaning dismally, was staggering in the opposite
direction, whence there was no outlet.

"Where are you off to, you blithering idiot?" shouted the young officer.

In a couple of strides he overtook the Hun, gripped him round the waist,
and carried him on deck.  Then, to his surprise, Devereux found that the
kapitan’s face was streaming with blood.  A sliver of lead from the
bullet that had demolished the lock of the cell had struck him in the
right eye, completely destroying the optic nerve.

"Can’t say I feel sorry for you," thought the sub-lieutenant,
recollections of the cold-blooded cruelty of the Hun vividly in his
mind.  Nevertheless, still holding the injured skipper, he leapt
overboard, whither the rest of the boarding-party had preceded him.

Strong as he was, Devereux had a hard tussle to swim to the submarine.
Caught by vicious eddies, swirled to and fro like a straw on the surface
of a mountain torrent, he was almost exhausted when hauled into safety.

Giving a glance over his shoulder as he was assisted to the deck of his
own craft, Devereux saw that the _Kondor_ was making her last plunge.
Throwing her bluff bows high in the air, she disappeared in a smother of
foam and a pall of black smoke mingled with steam.

Then, to his surprise, upon going aft to report to his commanding
officer, Devereux found Huxtable shaking, like a pump-handle, the hand
of one of the men he had rescued.

"By Jove!" exclaimed the astonished Devereux. "Blest if we haven’t----!
Why, it’s Sefton!"

"Guilty, m’lud!" replied that worthy.

"And Crosthwaite--he wasn’t on that hooker?" asked Devereux anxiously.

"No, thank heaven," replied Sefton fervently. "He’s still in hospital.
This is my young brother. I’ve got to blame him for this business, the
young rascal.  It was a narrow squeak for the pair of us."

"It was," assented Huxtable gravely.  "We spotted the _Kondor_ yesterday
and kept her under observation."

"Then you bagged that Hun battleship?" enquired Sefton.

"No, worse luck," replied the lieutenant-commander of E--.  "She altered
helm just as we were having a shot at her, and some other fellows did
the trick.  Mustn’t complain, though.  We are all members of the same
co-operative society in the trade.  The _Kondor’s_ crew?  A few hours in
the boats won’t hurt them, and I’ll wireless our destroyers. They are
too villainous a crew to slip out of our hands.  Come below, old man,
and we’ll rig the pair of you out in dry kit.  With luck, you ought to
be in Pompey again within twenty-four hours."

Pacing the diminutive quarter-deck of H.M.T.B.D. _Boanerges_, as she
swung to the first of the flood-tide, were two naval officers.  It was
too dark to distinguish their features, even in the red glow of their
cigarettes.

Three months had elapsed since the desperate struggle on Blackstone
Edge.  The _Boanerges_, a brand-new destroyer recently delivered from
the Clyde, had just commissioned at Portsmouth for service with the
Grand Fleet.

"My dear Boxspanner," remarked the taller of the twain, "I’ve come to
the conclusion that life ashore isn’t worth the candle.  In common
parlance, I’m fed up.  The last straw is the abominable petrol tax.
Just fancy, the blighters allow me two gallons a month----"

"You weren’t on leave for more than three weeks, Pills," interrupted the
engineer-lieutenant.

"Just so; that’s the rub.  I could have done with a three months’
allowance, and used the lot in a week.  By the way, talking of that new
carburetter----"

"Boat ahoy!" came a hoarse hail from the fo’c’sle as the lynx-eyed
look-out detected a dark object approaching under oars towards the
destroyer.

"Aye, aye!" was the orthodox reply, given in clear, decisive tones.

The boat was brought smartly alongside the accommodation-ladder, and a
young officer came briskly over the side.  Jack Sefton, "sub" no longer
but a full-fledged "luff", as the two gold rings, surmounted by a curl,
on each of his sleeves denoted.

"Well?" enquired Boxspanner eagerly.  "Have you seen Crosthwaite?"

"Saw him this afternoon," was the reply. "Passed the medical board with
flying colours. He’s reported fit for duty on the 8th."

"Good business!" ejaculated Stirling fervently.

"And," continued Sefton, "I’m in the know. Our owner’s due for
promotion.  He’ll be given a light cruiser; and unless I’m very much
mistaken we’ll have Crosthwaite as our skipper before long."

"Quartermaster!" said Sefton, as he turned to descend the
companion-ladder.

"Sir," replied that worthy, already known to our readers as Thomas
Brown, A.B., but now a promising petty officer.

"See that I am turned out at 5.45."

"Aye, aye, sir."

The three officers disappeared below.  The quartermaster smiled grimly
as the faint words of the chorus of "They don’t run corridor cars on our
branch line" caught his ear, followed by an emphatic "Chuck it, old
bird."

"Proper jonnick they are, every mother’s son of ’em," muttered P.O.
Brown, as he walked for’ard. "Chaps as us fellows would go through ’ell
with, if we ain’t done so already," his thought reverting to that
memorable action in the North Sea when the Huns fled before Jellicoe’s
armed might.

And thus we say "Adieu," or perhaps "Au revoir," to three gallant
gentlemen who had so worthily played their parts in upholding the honour
of the White Ensign with Beatty off Jutland.


Page 470: reference to Lugs; there is no such game listed, possibly this
should be Luggie.

Page 476: reference to Old Widow; there is no such game listed, it could
be a reference to Poor Widow; Baste the Bear, ditto, this is mentioned
under Badger the Bear; Old Woman, ditto, this could refer to Dumb
Motions.

Textual remarks:

At least some of the quotations presented by the author are not verbatim
quotations, they have been edited by the author (for example Aubrey on
cockle-bread).

In the Addenda, the original work uses Arabic rather than Roman numerals
for different variants; this has not been changed.

The original work uses both 2-4 and 2/4 to indicate musical time; this
has not been standardised.

Page 199: Love another like sister and brother is probably a mistake
(Love one another like sister and brother).

Page 336/7: The original work does not give a source or authority for
variation XXV.

Changes made to the original text:

Footnotes have been moved to end of the description of the game or to
immediately underneath the relevant paragraph (in the Memoir).

Sources (when printed in smaller type in the original work) have been
moved to a separate line where necessary.

In the Addenda, the references to games have been moved to the next
line.

First page: mustergiltig changed to mustergültig (exemplary)

Page vii: Pocklington Coltman changed to Pocklington-Coltman

Page xiii: Teesty-Totsy changed to Teesty-Tosty as in text

Page xv: Game Hulla-balloo-ballee added to list

Page 35: the other player’s changed to the other players

Page 56-60: some rows consisting of dashes only were combined in the
original work, these have been split into separate rows

Page 66: Hurstmonceaux changed to Hurstmonceux as elsewhere

Page 67: Hurstmonceaux changed to Hurstmonceux as elsewhere

Page 88: galop changed to gallop as elsewhere

Page 100: square brackets moved from line of verse to explanation, as
elsewhere [I pray ... the ball], putting ... three girls. changed to I
pray ... the ball, [putting ... three girls.]

Page 101: square bracket after yield up the ball. removed

Page 108: Egmond changed to Edgmont

Page 150: Biddgelert changed to Beddgelert

Page 153: (variant VIII) rise, Sally changed to rise, Sallie

Page 167: Strixwould changed to Stixwould

Page 192: Encyclopedia changed to Encyclopædia as elsewhere

Page 212: seldom or ever changed to seldom or never

Page 214: Warkwickshire changed to Warwickshire

Page 221: 1 and 2 changed to I and II as elsewhere

Page 274: come with we changed to come with me

Page 304: Schir, ξit remembir as of befoir changed to Schir, ȝit
remembir as of befoir

Page 321/2: I. and II. added for consistency

Page 323: Collyhurst changed to Colleyhurst as elsewhere

Page 324: Ill changed to I’ll

Page 333: Sprole changed to Sporle

Page 347: Hartley Witney changed to Hatley Wintney

Page 359: Authencairn changed to Auchencairn

Page 360: beleagured changed to beleaguered

Page 411: 229-303 changed to 299-303

Page 412: Page 292 changed to Page 294

Page 415: Doagan: placed on separate line as other section headers

Page 423: reference to Wads and the Wears: vol. i changed to vol. ii

Page 438: 315-319 changed to 313-319

Page 462: Tuilzie changed to Tuilyie

Page 464: Johnny Hairy changed to Johanny Hairy

Page 466: Cobler’s changed to Cobbler’s

Page 469: Spangle changed to Spangie

Page 475: Babity changed to Babbity as elsewhere

Page 476: Granny Crow changed to Cranny Crow; Rushes changed to Rashes

Page 477: Tuilzie changed to Tuilyie

Page 499: and in animals of the chase changed to and in these animals of
the chase

Page 482: Johnny Hairy changed to Johanny Hairy

Page 506: Orange and Lemons changed to Oranges and Lemons

Page 517: mother’s have children changed to mothers have children

Page 519: “Secular and Ceremonial Dances” of Torres Straits changed to
“Secular and Ceremonial Dances of Torres Straits”.