cranny of the compartment housing that box of tricks of intricate
machinery. Reluctantly Osborne came to the conclusion that his pet
was missing. The able-seaman, questioned further, was firm in his
belief that he had seen Laddie following his master, but he could not
say whether the animal actually boarded the prize. Nor could any of
the other men express a definite opinion on that point.

It was just possible that the dog might have missed his footing, and
have fallen between the steamboat and her capture. Failing being
crushed between the two craft he might have fallen into the sea, and,
unnoticed in the bustle, had been lost in the darkness.

Two hours later the steamboat--the sole survivor of the three boats
that had left the ship--ran alongside the _Portchester Castle_.

"By Jove, Osborne!" exclaimed Captain M'Bride, who in his anxiety had
remained all night on deck. "What has happened?"

"They were properly on the alert, sir," replied the Lieutenant. "We
were trapped, and were unable to accomplish our mission. However, we
fell in with a Turkish torpedo-boat, engaged her, and compelled the
crew to abandon ship. On the return run we again fell in with the
torpedo-boat, took possession, and towed her until relieved by one of
our destroyers."

"That evens things up a bit," remarked the skipper. "And the cutter
and the whaler?"

"Had to be abandoned, sir. They found themselves on the wrong side of
a boom."

"And our casualties?"

"Mr. Webb wounded, Mr. Haynes wounded slightly. Five men killed and
nine wounded, and----"

"And----?" repeated Captain M'Bride.

"Laddie missing, sir," continued Osborne.

CHAPTER XII

The Turkish Biplane

A WEEK passed. Although the _Portchester Castle_ was far from being
inactive, the result of almost continuous patrol work amongst the
islands of the AEgean Sea produced nothing in the nature of the
capture or destruction of a hostile craft. There had been numerous
false alarms; suspicious vessels had been chased, overhauled and
boarded, only to find that their papers were in thorough order and
their cargoes of a non-contraband nature; wild-goose expeditions had
been carried out in search of imaginary petrol depots--all of which
were most disappointing. The only redeeming feature of the business
was that the presence of a strong fleet of patrolling craft tended to
curtail the enemy's activities. The mere knowledge that the
approaches to the Dardanelles were closely watched, acted as a
deterrent both to the Turkish torpedo craft and the German submarines
that had been sent hither, in a vain attempt to drive the Allied
fleets from the open water of the Mediterranean and to stifle the
merchant shipping of that inland sea.

Before the expiration of those seven days Sub-lieutenant Tom Webb was
reported fit for duty. Thanks to clean living and a robust
constitution, he made rapid progress under the skilful care of the
ship's doctor. His regret for Osborne's loss was almost equal to that
of Laddie's master.

The latter was badly hit by the catastrophe. Although he gave little
outward sign of his grief, he felt the loss of his pet acutely.

"He may turn up again, old man," said Webb consolingly. "Just as
likely as not he was left on board the torpedo-boat. If so, the
destroyer's people will look after him until we get in touch with
her."

"I wish I could share your opinion, Tom," replied Osborne. "But I
can't see how that could possibly happen. Laddie wouldn't remain on
board when I left. No, I'm afraid he's gone for good; and it's the
horrible uncertainty of his fate that makes matters worse."

Captain M'Bride, too, was profuse in his sympathy.

"Of course, Osborne," he remarked, "I can't very well send out a
general wireless asking if one of our destroyers has picked up a dog.
I'd possibly get rapped over the knuckles by the Admiral for my
pains. But I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll write a private letter to
a chum of mine at Lemnos--he's the skipper of the _Tarbox_--and ask
him to institute enquiries. I'm rather inclined to favour Mr. Webb's
theory, you know."

"Thanks, sir," replied Osborne. "It would be----"

"Aeroplane on our port quarter, sir," shouted one of the look-out
men.

The three officers hastened to the bridge, where the officer of the
watch had already brought his telescope to bear upon the approaching
air-craft.

"A Johnny Turk, sir," reported the watchkeeper. "There are crescents
on her planes."

A bugle blared "Action Stations". The two anti-aircraft guns were
manned, while the quick-firers were trained to their extreme
elevation in the hope that the oncoming aerial foe would still be a
sufficient distance from the ship to enable the weapons to be brought
to bear upon the swiftly-moving target.

Already it was too late for the ordinary quick-firers to be of
service. The "anti's" alone had to be employed to fire at the Turkish
aeroplane. Should the latter elect to rise to a great altitude the
comparatively feeble weapons would be of little use. On the other
hand, the higher the aeroplane rose the greater difficulty there
would be of hitting a moving target like the _Portchester Castle_.

The two guns spoke almost simultaneously. By the aid of the
"tracers", thin wisps of smoke from the soaring projectiles, it was
quite easy to follow the flight of the shrapnel shells. Both burst
seemingly close to the enemy air-craft. The observers in the armed
merchant-cruiser could see the delicate smoke-wreaths from the
detonating projectile being riven by the rush of air from the
swiftly-moving machine. For a few seconds the aeroplane appeared to
falter; then steadying herself, continued her flight undamaged.

Ten seconds later a bomb crashed into the sea, exploding with a
terrific detonation within fifty yards of the _Portchester Castle's_
starboard quarter. It was near enough to send a shower of spray
completely over the ship's poop, while fragments of metal rattled
against her steel sides.

Again a shrapnel shell burst overhead, but so far from the target
that Osborne involuntarily exclaimed, "Rotten shot"; but, the instant
after, "anti No. 2" succeeded in making the aeroplane side-slip for
nearly a hundred feet before it recovered and circled in order to
regain a favourable position for dropping more explosives.

Instinctively Tom Webb edged nearer the chart-house, but only for a
moment. Captain M'Bride and Lieutenant Osborne were standing rigid
and apparently unconscious of the danger. Their example, coupled with
the fact that if the bomb did hit the bridge there would not be
sufficient fragments of the chart-house to fill a pint measure,
steadied the Sub's nerves. Many a time he had been in danger of being
blown sky-high by mine or torpedo. He had grown used to such perils;
but the unprecedented possibility of being pulverized by an enemy
that could be seen had been responsible for his unpremeditated effort
to gain a useless shelter.

Meanwhile the _Portchester Castle_, having been given the fullest use
of the helm, was swinging to port. As she did so, the second bomb
fell where her bows would have been had she held on her course.

"That was a near one, Osborne," remarked Captain M'Bride calmly, as
he wiped the spray from his eyes, for the cascade of foam had fallen
inboard, some of it flying over the elevated bridge. "This chap is a
sticker for business. See, he's making another circle."

At that moment a man rushed up from below, and, leaping over the
stanchion-rails, disappeared beneath the waves. Osborne and Webb
hastened to the end of the bridge, but the suicide never appeared
again.

It was the Greek, who had been detained on board pending his trial
for treachery in connection with the thwarted attempt upon the
non-existent petrol depot of Akhissareli. According to custom, all
prisoners are released from cells when the vessel goes into action;
and, profiting by this circumstance, the Greek, terrified by the
crash of the guns and the explosion of the bombs, had escaped
execution by order of a court-martial by choosing a voluntary death.

"He's cheated the hangman," remarked Osborne. "But what's the next
move?"

The officers' attention was again directed towards the hostile
air-craft. The biplane had swung round, in order to make yet another
attempt to bomb the war-ship.

The Turkish airman was not lacking in daring. Reckless of the
_Portchester Castle's_ anti-aircraft guns, he volplaned from a height
of three thousand feet until he had descended to less than two
hundred and fifty feet from his target.

In so doing he unconsciously swung to leeward, and got within the
maximum elevation of the 4.7-inchers. One of the gun-layers saw his
chance and took it. With a shrill screech the projectile sped from
the inclined muzzle of the powerful weapon. It was a splendid shot,
but hardly good enough, for, without exploding, the shell passed
completely through the right-hand planes.

Again the biplane lurched heavily, and side-slipped to within a
hundred feet of the sea. Then, with superb skill, the airman righted
the damaged machine. He had had enough. It was now his endeavour to
save himself by flight if possible.

"Cease fire!" ordered Captain M'Bride in stentorian tones. "She's
done for."

Lower and lower sank the crippled aeroplane, despite the efforts of
the pilot to keep her clear of the surface of the water. With a
strange spiral-like motion the biplane carried on for nearly a mile,
then with a tremendous splash struck the water, reared her tail
twenty feet in the air, and promptly disappeared from sight.

"There he is, sir; there's the pilot!" shouted a score of voices, as
the head and shoulders of the airman were to be discerned bobbing up
and down on the waves.

"And he's still alive," added Webb, still keeping his telescope
bearing upon the scene of the biplane's dive.

"Away sea-boat!" ordered the skipper, at the same time telegraphing
for "Half-speed astern".

There was a rush to man the boat. The jack-tars, who a few moments
previously were in danger of being blown to atoms, were now eager to
show their appreciation of a brave foe by doing their level best to
save his life. Although Johnny Turk had, on several occasions, made
things pretty hot for the Allies, the British seamen and soldiers,
unanimously regarding him as a clean fighter and far superior in
chivalry to the Hun, were quick to recognize his good qualities.

Before way was off the ship the sea-boat, commanded by Dicky Haynes,
had been disengaged from the falls, and was pulling strongly in the
direction of the airman, who, although unable to swim, was being
supported by an inflated air life-belt.

Speedily the Turk was lifted into the boat. For a few moments he felt
a trifle uncertain of the manner of his reception, but he was quickly
put at his ease by the young Sub, who, finding that the airman spoke
French, was able to maintain a simple conversation.

"You are a prisoner of war, sir," said Captain M'Bride, through
Haynes's interpretation, when the airman was brought on board the
_Portchester Castle_. "We are quite agreeable to letting you have
plenty of liberty, providing you give us your parole. You will be
well treated, and, subject to certain restrictions, allowed freedom
of movement. If, on the other hand, you are discovered engaging upon
any action likely to prejudice the safety of the ship, then the
penalty will be death."

The airman, who announced himself as Afir-al-Bahr, Flight-lieutenant
of the Ottoman Navy, showed unmistakable signs of sincere gratitude
for his rescue and generous treatment. He swore by Mohammed and his
father's beard--the most binding oath that a Mussulman can take--to
abide faithfully by the terms under which his parole was granted.

Later on in the day he became quite communicative. He admitted that
his heart was not in his work. He was one of the educated class of
Turks who realized, perhaps too late, that Germany had selfish
ulterior motives in her profuse expressions of friendship for her
near Eastern ally. He was sensible of the friendliness of Great
Britain towards the Ottoman Empire in times past, and regretted the
turn of events that had compelled the Porte to throw in its lot with
the Hun.

"But since we are enemies," he added, "we must fight bravely until
Allah wills that Ottoman and Englishman shall again sheathe the
sword."

"Quite a decent sort," declared Webb to his chum Osborne later in the
afternoon. "Did you notice how tactfully he evaded a chance question
on the part of the skipper? He couldn't have given a direct answer
without betraying some of the Turkish war plans. By Jove! what a
contrast to those Hun officers we had on board the old _Zealous_.
Comparisons may be odious, but a German is a jolly sight more
odious."

"Seen this, you fellows?" asked the junior watch-keeper, holding out
a slip of paper. "Something doing this trip, I fancy."

It was a decoded wireless message, brief and to the point.

"Mail-boat _Sunderbund_ reported torpedoed, latitude 34° 15' 20" N.,
long. 22° 4' 16" E. Passengers and crew taken to boats, supposed
making for Alexandria. _Portchester Castle_ to proceed and
investigate to eastward of position; _Restormel_ to westward.
Immediate."

CHAPTER XIII

The "Sunderbund's" Life-boat

THE latitude and longitude given showed that the attack upon the
mail-boat had occurred close to the Tripolitan coast off the province
of Barca, a desolate country on the western frontier of Egypt. At the
time of receiving the message the _Portchester Castle_ was twenty
miles S.E. of Cape Sidero, in the island of Crete, and roughly 250
miles from the scene of the disaster.

Immediately upon receipt of the wireless the armed merchant-cruiser
set off at full speed to carry out instructions. A message from the
_Restormel_ announced the fact that that vessel was eighty miles to
the westward.

"Glass tumbling down as if someone had knocked a hole in the bulb,"
remarked Osborne. "We're in for a spell of very dirty weather before
very long. The _Sunderbund's_ boats won't stand much chance in the
heavy seas one meets with in the Eastern Mediterranean, and heaven
help them if they are cast ashore. They've an even chance of death by
starvation--that is, if they survive the landing through the
breakers--or captivity in the hands of the Senussi."

"I thought that those fellows had been knocked out long ago,"
remarked Haynes.

"Yes, as far as the Sollum district is concerned," replied the
Lieutenant. "But, unfortunately, numbers of these undesirables have
made their way westward into the fringe of the Tripolitan desert.
They have, apparently, lost their Turkish officers, and are acting as
banditti. From all accounts they are well armed with modern rifles,
although their field-guns and machine-guns were captured several
months ago."

The barometer had given a certain warning of bad weather, and before
many hours had elapsed it was blowing hard from the east'ard. The sun
set in a ragged bank of indigo-coloured clouds. The wind whistled
shrilly through the armed merchant-cruiser's rigging, and the
spindrift began to fly in heavy masses over the weather bow.

Morning brought no improvement in the weather. In fact it looked
worse, for the waves were so heavy that the _Portchester Castle_ had
lost a quantity of deck gear, while two of the boats had been "stove
in" at the davits, owing to the gripes being carried away under the
hammer-like blows of the green seas.

"Not much chance for the _Sunderbund's_ boats," said Haynes. "They
couldn't possibly make headway against this tumble. They'd be swamped
to a dead cert."

"Unless they rigged up sea-anchors and rode to them," added Webb.
"These waves are not so steep as those we get in the North Sea, and
luckily the wind is not blowing dead on shore. It's my belief that
the _Restormel_, being farther to lee'ard, will stand a better chance
than we shall of picking up the boats."

By this time the _Portchester Castle_ had altered helm and was
steering eastward, right into the eye of the wind. Broad on the
starboard beam could be faintly discerned the low, sandy cliffs of
the African shore, fringed by a wide belt of milk-white foam. North,
west, and east the horizon was unbroken. Sea and sky met in an
ill-defined blurr. Not another sail was in sight, nor had the
_Portchester Castle_ passed any wreckage, although her course had
taken her over the spot where the ill-fated liner had been reported
to have sunk.

Wireless messages constantly passed between the _Portchester Castle_
and the _Restormel_, each vessel keeping her consort posted as to her
position; but neither was able to announce the gratifying news that
the object of their quest had been achieved. About eight bells (8
a.m.) the officer of the watch reported what appeared to be a boat,
well on the starboard bow. A course was immediately shaped to
approach the supposed craft, while the _Portchester Castle's_
officers kept it well under observation with their glasses.

"I don't think it is a boat," suggested Haynes. "Looks to me like
surf breaking over a rock."

He wiped the moisture from the lens of his telescope and looked
again.

"It's only broken water," he said with conviction.

"I believe it is a boat--a white-painted one," said Webb.

"Sure?" enquired Haynes, unwilling to own that his surmise was at
fault.

"Yes; she's lifting to the waves. I can see people in her."

"By Jove, yes," agreed Osborne. "And they are unpleasantly close to
the broken water. They don't seem to be making headway."

"We're in as close as we dare go, I fancy, Mr. Osborne," remarked
Captain M'Bride. "We cannot hazard the ship by going inside the
ten-fathom line. Fire a couple of rockets, and see if they will be
able to pull out to us."

Quickly the order was carried out. The two detonating rockets
exploded with loud reports, and, in spite of the fury of the wind,
the people in the boat heard the signal. Hitherto their attention
seemed to have been directed towards the inhospitable shore, and they
had not noticed the _Portchester Castle's_ approach. The latter
slowed down, steaming at half-speed into the wind at a distance of a
couple of miles from one of the _Sunderbund's_ life-boats, for such
she was.

"They'll never do it," declared Captain M'Bride. "They're only
pulling four oars and look quite done up. We'll have to call for
volunteers, Mr. Osborne, to take the steamboat in and give them a tow
back to the ship."

"Very good, sir," replied the Lieutenant. "I'll go."

"No, not you, Mr. Osborne," said the skipper. "You'll be more useful
on board. It will be a ticklish job lowering the steamboat."

"May I, sir?" asked Webb eagerly.

Captain M'Bride assented. He had great confidence in the
Sub-lieutenant's capability, coolness, and sound judgment, and
already Webb had acquired a considerable amount of practice in
handling the steam cutter.

There was no lack of volunteers to man the boat, and the Sub had no
difficulty in picking out those men who were accustomed to the
cutter. Steam was quickly raised, and in a very short time the heavy
craft was ready to be hoisted out.

The _Portchester Castle's_ helm was then starboarded, bringing the
vessel broadside on to wind and sea, and thus affording a floating
breakwater for the rescuing boat. Even then the vessel rolled so
heavily, and the waves even to leeward were so vicious, that the
operation of casting off from the ship's side would be fraught with
danger.

"We'll try the effect of a little oil," declared the skipper. "Pass
the word for a cask of heavy stuff to be started. Look lively there."

The effect of the oil was little short of marvellous. Far to leeward
the tumultuous seas subsided as if by magic, leaving a calm,
fan-shaped belt of iridescent water bounded by a terrific turmoil of
broken water.

Clad in oilskins, sou'wester, and rubber boots, Webb took his place
by the side of the coxswain. For'ard everything had been battened
down, while in the stern-sheets were a couple of coils of rope and a
strongly-stropped empty water breaker.

"Easy ahead," ordered the Sub. Although every moment was precious, he
was too good a seaman to attempt to drive his boat at full speed
through the turmoil of foaming seas immediately beyond the belt of
oil-quelled water. To have done so would have resulted in a severe
strain upon the engines owing to the racing of the propeller as the
boat's stern lifted clear of the waves, and quite possibly the cutter
would have found herself in a far more dangerous predicament than the
life-boat to whose assistance she was proceeding.

Soon the steamboat was in the thick of it. Solid waves swept her as
far aft as the cabin top; clouds of vapour, caused by the cold water
coming in sudden contact with the hot funnel-casing, enveloped the
Sub and the coxswain in a blinding, scurrying pall of moisture. Only
by holding on like grim death were the two able to save themselves
from being thrown overboard by the erratic, almost vertical jerk of
the boat's stern. At rapid intervals the helm had to be smartly
ported in order to enable the steamboat to meet the hissing crested
waves, which, had they hit the craft on her broadside, might easily
have capsized her, or at least flooded her cockpit flush with the
coamings.

Nobly the cutter struggled onwards. Every foot gained was the result
of sheer hard work--a contest of the product of a mechanical age with
the forces of nature. Gradually the distance between her and the
_Portchester Castle_ increased; she was making slow but sure headway
against wind and waves.

"See anything of the boat?" asked Webb, bellowing into the coxswain's
ear in order to make himself understood in the racket of pounding
machinery and the roar of the elements.

"Not a sign, sir," replied the man. "Maybe she's in the trough of the
sea when we're on top of a wave, and t'other way about. Anyways,
we'll pick her up if she's still afloat."

For full half an hour the strenuous struggle continued, then the
steamboat entered a comparatively calm belt of water. The respite was
but temporary, for two hundred yards ahead began the broken water as
the waves began to thunder on the flat shore.

"There she is, sir," shouted the coxswain, as the glistening white
bows of the _Sunderbund's_ life-boat were for a brief instant visible
on the summit of a wave. "And lumme," he added under his breath,
"they're about done in, I fancy. At all events it'll take some
getting out of that jumble of surf."

The man was quite right in his surmise. The liner's boat was
gradually and steadily losing ground. Despite the desperate and
heroic efforts of her rowers--they had double- and treble-banked the
oars that still remained serviceable--the physical strain was
beginning to tell.

"Where she can keep afloat we can go," decided the Sub. "So here
goes."

The steamboat approached cautiously, easing down as each successive
comber swept towards her. Already there was a foot of water in the
engine-room, while, in spite of the most skilful handling, the
propeller was racing madly as the boat dipped her nose and threw her
stern clear of the waves.

It was, indeed, almost miraculous that the _Sunderbund's_ life-boat
had so far weathered the storm. As it was, green seas were breaking
over her, necessitating prompt, vigorous, and constant baling on the
part of her passengers and crew. Many of the former, too, were down
with sea-sickness of the worst form, and only lay inertly on the
bottom-boards, too ill to take further interest in the proceedings.

At length the steamboat approached sufficiently near to enable the
breaker and grass rope to be veered to the sorely pressed life-boat.
Directly the towing-hawser was made fast the former forged ahead; but
hardly had she taken the strain when the means of communication
parted like packthread, one portion narrowly missing being caught by
the propeller. Had it done so the steamboat would have been helpless
in the trough of the sea.

It was now an even more difficult matter to take the boat in tow
again, for the breaker and grass rope had been taken on the
_Sunderbund's_ boat. Meanwhile both craft had drifted farther to
leeward, and closer to the worst of the broken water. Clearly Webb
had to act now or the opportunity would be gone for ever.

Frequently buried in green seas, from which she shook herself clear
like an enormous dog, the steam cutter staggered to windward of the
boat and, turning, approached within casting distance.

Dexterously communication was re-established, and once more the
steamboat began to take the strain of the towing-hawser. At one
instant stretched as taut as a steel bar, at another dipping limply
in the sea, the stout rope stood the strain, and gradually the
life-boat began to gather way. If progress was slow on the outward
run, the journey back to the ship was even more so. Yet the
_Portchester Castle_ was unable to approach another cable's length
without an almost certain risk of grounding.

"The old ship's chucking overboard some more oil, sir," reported the
coxswain. "Maybe we'll get some benefit, although I'll allow it'll
drift too far to wind'ard."

"It's spreading," shouted Webb in reply. "That will do the trick."

Twenty minutes later the steamboat ran alongside her parent. The
hawser was transferred to the latter's steam-capstan, and the cutter
was deftly hoisted inboard.

Now came the more difficult task of transhipping the rescued men from
the life-boat to the _Portchester Castle_. Without means of hoisting
the heavy boat bodily out of the water, the armed merchant-cruiser's
crew had to haul each survivor separately by means of bowlines and
bos'n's chairs, for most of the passengers had collapsed from
exposure.

There were two exceptions, however: one a tall, fair-haired man in
the khaki uniform of a Major of artillery. In spite of the fact that
his left arm was in a sling, he experienced no difficulty in making
the ascent, and came over the side with a decided smile on his face.

Sub-lieutenant Webb looked at him intently; then, to confirm his
surmise, he glanced at the officer's companion--a slightly shorter
and broad-shouldered man of about forty. His face was bronzed, his
hair, crisp in spite of the drenching spray, was tinged with grey at
the temples. His attire consisted of a pair of navy-blue trousers and
a shirt. It afterwards transpired that he had given his monkey-jacket
to one of the lady passengers, or Webb would have recognized him as a
Lieutenant-commander of the Royal Naval Reserve.

"By Jove, Billy!" drawled the naval man. "Thought you and I, old
bird, would have had to swim for it--eh what? How's that groggy wrist
of yours now?"

Tom Webb hesitated no longer. He stepped up to the pair of rescued
officers and held out his hand.

"Thanks, many thanks," exclaimed the coatless one. "You're the Sub in
charge of the steamboat? Smart bit of work, 'pon my word."

"Glad to have the opportunity of repaying a good turn, Mr. Dacres,"
said Webb.

"Good turn?" repeated Dacres, knitting his brows. "Good turn. I don't
follow you. I haven't met you before, have I?"

"Yes, and so has Mr. Fane."

Mr. Fane was equally at a loss.

"Give it up," he declared. "All the same----"

"Dash it all, I've tumbled to it," interrupted Dacres. "You were that
curly-headed Sea Scout I met at Haslar Creek three or four years ago.
I believe you were the means of enabling me to get a yacht off my
hands."

"And incidentally the means of getting me my commission," added the
ex-Tenderfoot. "And Osborne is on board too. There he is: officer of
the watch. If it hadn't been for the experience we gained on board
the old _Petrel_, I don't suppose we would have been here."

"Then the little yacht did some practical good work after all. I told
you so, Billy," said Dacres, addressing his companion. "Yes, thanks
very much," he added, in response to the Sub's invitation. "The loan
of a dry kit and a good meal would be very acceptable. It's
nearly----"

"Submarine on the starboard bow, sir!" roared the mast-head man, his
words unmistakably clear in spite of the howling of the wind.

The _Portchester Castle_ began to turn in obedience to a quick
movement of the helm. Hoarse orders were shouted from the bridge and
taken up by the bos'n's mates in other parts of the ship. But the
warning came too late. The armed merchant-cruiser reeled as with a
terrific explosion a torpedo "got home" just abaft her engine-room.

CHAPTER XIV

Submarined

OF what happened during the next few minutes Sub-lieutenant Tom Webb
had but a hazy confused idea. The reverberations of the tremendous
detonation were straining his ear-drums almost to bursting-point.
Wreaths of pungent smoke, caught by the vicious blasts that eddied
over the deck, obliterated everything from his vision and made him
gasp for breath like a drowning man. His brain seemed benumbed by the
concussion, his legs were on the point of giving way until he almost
unconsciously grasped a guard-rail within arm's length.

Gradually he began to realize that disaster had overtaken the ship.
He was aware of men rushing hither and thither, some shouting, others
almost as dazed as himself. The _Portchester Castle_ was listing
heavily to starboard. Mingled with the tumult on deck, the howling of
the wind, the hiss of escaping steam, and the slap of the vicious
seas, came the unmistakable sound of volumes of water rushing in
through the enormous rent in the ship's bottom, caused by the
explosion of the torpedo.

"By Jove, Billy!" exclaimed Dacres in his customary drawl; "we've
pulled off a double event. Torpedoed twice within twenty-four hours,
eh, what?"

Before Fane could reply a bugle-call rang out sharply. It was the
"Still". Instantly the turmoil of humanity ceased. As steady as if at
a ceremonial inspection the men stood at attention until "Collision
Quarters" brought the ship's company into a state of disciplined
activity.

The _Portchester Castle_ was doomed. All on board realized the fact.
In spite of the terrific seas a German submarine had "stood by" the
_Sunderbund's_ life-boat, keeping submerged at a distance sufficient
to prevent any of the liner's survivors "spotting" the pole-like
periscopes as they appeared at intervals above the waves.

The Hun skipper of the U-boat had caught the wireless appeal from the
stricken _Sunderbund_. He knew that aid would be speedily
forthcoming, and setting aside all dictates of humanity, he had lain
_perdu_ for the opportunity of yet a further display of
"frightfulness".

He was not mistaken in his conjecture. He had witnessed from afar the
rescue of the _Sunderbund's_ life-boat, and awaiting his chance had
approached within torpedo range while the attention of the
_Portchester Castle's_ crew was directed towards the hoisting in of
the steamboat and the reception of the survivors of his previous
victim. And now the armed merchant-cruiser, with a rent twenty feet
in length, was settling down. Her strained water-tight bulkheads were
unable to withstand the enormous pressure. It was merely a matter of
minutes before the _Portchester Castle_ would make her final plunge.

Captain M'Bride, though cool and collected, realized the gravity of
the situation. Apart from the danger of lowering boats in that angry
sea, the great list of the ship rendered practically impossible the
use of the boats on the port side.

There was one chance: that of making for the inhospitable African
shore in the hope that the ship would ground. In that case her crew
could remain on board until rescue was forthcoming; or, in the event
of the vessel breaking up, there would be a chance of taking to the
boats and effecting a landing under the lee of the stranded hull.

By this time Webb had recovered his normal state of mind, and was
directing the provisioning and arming of some of the boats. Osborne
was on the fo'c'sle, superintending the clearing away of the anchors,
so that on approaching the shore the stricken vessel could be thrown
broadside on to the waves. Haynes and other officers were engaged in
assisting the men to make rafts and getting provisions and water from
the store-rooms.

Every member of the ship's company had donned a life-belt; the
survivors of the _Sunderbund_, who had only just discarded their
life-saving gear, had to put their belts on once more. Theirs was a
hard case, since they were almost exhausted with the privations they
had previously undergone; yet they made a brave show of spirit that
is typical of the Briton in a tight corner.

Presently the starboard engine gave out. The stokehold was flooded
and the fires damped. Within a few minutes the port engines followed
suit, and although still carrying way the _Portchester Castle_
gradually slowed down. Her head fell off, and she wallowed in the
trough of the breakers.

By this time her rail on the starboard side was only a few feet above
water. She was deep down by the stern, her bows being correspondingly
high. The very lifelessness of the ship, in spite of the enormous
waves, showed that the end was not far off.

"Lower away!" shouted the skipper through a megaphone.

Smartly, but without undue haste or confusion, the boats in the
davits on the starboard side were lowered. The first to disengage
from the falls was the second cutter. Barely had she cast off when a
terrific sea caught and completely capsized her. Half a dozen of her
crew succeeded in catching hold of life-lines thrown by their
comrades on board the ship, and were hauled on board again. Some were
trapped underneath the upturned boat, others, supported by the
life-belts, were swept shorewards through the chaos of surf and foam.

The remaining boats on the starboard side got away without accident;
then, owing possibly to the amount of water that had poured into the
ship's engine-rooms and holds, the _Portchester Castle_ swung back on
an even keel.

Captain M'Bride saw his chance--and took it.

"Let go both anchors!" he shouted.

With a rattle and a roar the steel cables rushed through the
hawse-pipes, and presently, the vessel's drive to leeward being
checked, she swung round, with her bows pointing diagonally for the
shore.

Now was the opportunity to man and lower the boats on the port side.
Osborne, his work on deck accomplished, took charge of one, Webb of
another; and with only the loss of a couple of oars which were
smashed against the ship's side the frail craft took the water.

"Look out, she's going!" exclaimed a score of voices.

Which was a fact. The end had come suddenly. With a decided movement
the ship's bows slid under water; her stern reared perhaps twenty
feet clear of the waves. Webb could see those of the crew who had not
time to take to the boats struggling waist-deep in the surging water
ere they were swept clear of the foundering vessel. On the bridge
stood the gallant skipper, true to the long-established and glorious
custom of the sea. Until the last man had left the ship his place was
on the bridge.

He made no effort to save himself. Gripping the guard-rail he stood
erect, his attention directed towards those of his ship's company who
had hesitated to trust themselves to swim ashore.

"Pull to leeward, men," ordered Webb. "We may even yet pick up our
skipper."

Even as he spoke the _Portchester Castle_ ceased to sink. She had
grounded in about eight or nine fathoms of water, leaving her bridge
and a portion of the spar-deck still showing above the waves.

Those still on board were quick to recognize the change of fortune.
Some made their way to the bridge, others clambered into the
lee-rigging, until the shrouds were black with humanity.

All the boats were turning back. Those from the starboard side were
sufficiently loaded to endanger their safety should more men crowd
into them; but those lowered from the port side had not been able to
take their full complement before the vessel sank. On the latter,
then, fell the task of rescuing the skipper and the remaining men,
while the other boats contented themselves with picking up a few
survivors who had been carried clear when the _Portchester Castle's_
decks had been swept by the breakers.

By dint of hard pulling, in spite of the shelter afforded by the lee
of the stranded ship, Osborne contrived to get his boat within a few
yards of the bridge. At one moment the projecting platform was
towering twenty feet or more above the boat, at the next the latter's
gunwales were almost level with it. All the while there was the
pressing danger of the boat's bows being jammed against the underside
of the bridge, or of her bottom subsiding, with disastrous results,
upon the iron-work projecting from the submerged sides of the ship.

In Webb's case the task was simpler, though by no means free from
danger. Watching his opportunity he ran close alongside the resilient
main-shrouds, and succeeded in taking on board every man who had
found a temporary refuge in that part of the rigging. He was now able
to ride to leeward of the wreck by means of a long scope of cable,
thus conserving the energies of the rowers until the hazardous dash
through the surf to the shore.

The Sub could not help admiring the skill with which his chum Osborne
went about his work, keeping the boat within a few feet of the bridge
as the former rose on the waves. One by one the men leapt into the
rescuing craft until only the skipper remained.

Then raising his hand in a last salute to the ship's white ensign,
which was still visible between the crests of the waves, Captain
M'Bride jumped agilely into the stern-sheets of the boat.

CHAPTER XV

Castaways on a Hostile Shore

A ROUSING cheer from the other boats greeted Captain M'Bride when it
was seen that he was for the time being safe. It was a spontaneous
tribute to the skipper's popularity. Even when faced with the
possibility of being hurled lifeless upon the surf-swept shore, the
ship's company "let themselves go".

There was a smile of confidence on Captain M'Bride's weather-beaten
face as he acknowledged the compliment. He, too, had good cause to be
pleased with the people under his command. He realized that, with men
of that dogged pluck and cheerfulness in the face of danger, the
traditions of the White Ensign would be maintained come what might.

And now began the nerve-racking ordeal of attempting a landing
through the surf. Rowing steadily the boats approached the fringe of
broken water, then each turned her bows from shore and backed.
Whenever a breaker more dangerous than the rest bore down, the rowers
pulled ahead until the foaming mass of water had swept past.

"We're getting on," thought Webb. "Only a couple of cables' lengths
more, and all right up to now."

He dare not give more than a rapid glance shorewards, but it was
enough to give him an inkling of what the reception would be; for on
the crest of the low sandy cliffs were a dozen Arabs mounted on
camels. The riders were crouching on the animals' backs, and holding
their white burnouses close to their faces to shield them from the
spray-laden wind. All were armed with rifles.

When the Sub turned his head and looked again the Arabs had vanished.
Instead of remaining to aid the castaways, they had apparently ridden
off to bring others of their tribe to plunder, murder, or carry into
captivity any survivors who had the misfortune to fall into their
hands.

Others in the boat saw the new danger. Had the presence of the
Senussi been noticed earlier, the flotilla could have returned to the
wreck and brought up under her lee, in the hope of rescue by the
_Restormel_ or other patrolling craft. It was now too late, for it
was impossible to row against the wind and waves. The only hope was
to effect a landing, hold the fierce Arabs at bay, and trust to the
_Restormel_ putting in an appearance when the weather moderated.
Unfortunately, when the _Portchester Castle_ was torpedoed the shock
had thrown the wireless completely out of gear, and communication
with her consort was out of the question. A wireless had been sent
out an hour previous to the disaster; whether the _Restormel_ had
come to the conclusion that the _Portchester Castle_ was on her way
to Port Said, or whether she would guess by the absence of signals
that the latter had met with a grave mishap, was merely a matter for
conjecture.

But Tom Webb had other things at present to occupy his attention, for
with an irresistible rush a mass of green sea poured completely over
the boat, capsizing her and throwing her crew into the water.

The Sub was one of the few who were thrown clear. Some, trapped
underneath the upturned craft, were unable to dive under the
gunwales, owing to the buoyancy of their life-saving gear, until they
had wrenched off their belts. Two were stunned by their heads coming
into violent contact with the woodwork.

Caught by a crested breaker, Webb found himself being urged
shorewards at a terrific speed. Presently his feet touched the sand.
In vain he started to make his way to land. Gripped by the undertow
he was dragged back until the succeeding breaker overtook him,
hurling him forwards like a stone from a catapult. Again the wave
receded. Prone upon the soft, yielding sand, the Sub endeavoured to
obtain a hold by digging his hands into the treacherous shore till
the receding mass of water drew him backwards to be again pounded by
the next mountain of water. Boats' gear, hurled shorewards by the
waves, was thrown all around him. Several times he was struck by
heavy objects. Not only was he in danger of being drowned; there was
also a likelihood that he might be battered into a state of
insensibility by the flotsam.

For how long this state of affairs continued Webb had not the
faintest idea. Nor did he know how his companions were faring, except
that farther along the shore some saturated figures were staggering
up the beach. He was fast losing count of time and place. Torpor was
beginning to seize him in its remorseless, oblivion-giving grasp.

Suddenly his hands came in contact with the broken blade of an oar.
The instinct of self-preservation was yet strong enough to enable him
to take the remote chance that remained. Waiting until the next wave
was beginning to run back, the Sub planted the slightly cambered
piece of wood deeply in the sand. The broad surface held, despite the
terrific backward drag of the undertow.

Directly the suction ceased, Webb staggered to his feet and began to
make his way to safety; but before he had gone five yards he was
flung headlong by the succeeding breaker, and the blade of the oar
was wrenched from his grasp.

Before the backwash gripped him the Sub felt a hand grasp his wrist.
He was just conscious of seeing Dacres with a line round his waist
standing thigh-deep in the water, and hearing his cheering words of
encouragement. Then everything became a blank.

When Sub-lieutenant Webb came to himself he found that he was lying
under the lee of the sand-hills. A broad-leaved prickly bush afforded
shelter from the sun, the rays of which were beating fiercely down
upon the almost barren ground. His head had been roughly bandaged,
and was supported by a rolled coat.

He was not alone. A dozen men, all in varying stages of recovery from
a state of insensibility, were lying on the ground. At some distance,
others were busily engaged in emptying boxes of stores that had been
washed ashore and--ominous sight--were filling them with sand.
Others were hacking at the prickly scrub and erecting a form of
fortification known as a zariba. Apparently an attack by the Senussi
was expected.

There was Osborne in coat and shirt, and with a strip of calico
wrapped round his head to protect it from the sun, toiling as
arduously as the seamen; Dacres and Fane, the latter with his arm
still in a sling, were dragging heavy gear up from the shore. A short
distance away was Captain M'Bride, inspecting the few rifles which
had come ashore in the boats; with him was Dicky Haynes. Most of the
remaining officers were safe, but there were some whom Webb would
never again meet on this earth.

Taking into consideration the violence of the storm, the _Portchester
Castle's_ people had come off lightly. Of her complement of 215, four
officers and thirty-two men were missing. With three exceptions, the
passengers and crew rescued from the _Sunderbund's_ life-boat were
safe, while the Turkish airman, Afir-al-Bahr, had come ashore without
injury.

Of the boats, only one was in a serviceable condition. The others had
been smashed up on the beach by the surf before sufficient hands were
available to haul them above the reach of the waves. Most of the gear
had been saved, including twenty-four rifles, a couple of cases of
ammunition, seven barrels of biscuits, some salt beef, and half a
dozen barricoes of water.

Although the waves were still running high, the storm had nearly
blown itself out. The shore was littered with debris. Several seamen
were busily engaged in collecting everything that might prove to be
of value from the wreckage.

At some distance from the shore was the wreck of the _Portchester
Castle_, with waves breaking against those portions that showed above
water. One of her funnels had vanished; the other was still manfully
resisting the onslaught of the heavy breakers. Both her masts
remained, while from the ensign staff that showed four or five feet
above the waves the white ensign still fluttered in the strong
breeze.

Osborne waved a cheery greeting to his chum as Webb regained his
feet. The Lieutenant was too busy to "knock off" and yarn with him.
Every moment was precious if the place were to be put into a state of
defence before the threatened attack.

A short, round-faced man, whose headgear consisted of a white
cap-cover, came bustling along the top of the dunes. It was Donovon,
the ship's surgeon.

"Faith," he exclaimed, catching sight of Webb, "and what might you be
doing out in the sun? Get back to bed this minute." And he indicated
the scanty shade of the thorn bush.

"I'm all right, Doctor," protested the Sub; "I am really."

"So you think," rejoined Dr. Donovon. "If you're knocking yourself
up, that is your affair; only I'd let you know that I've my hands
pretty full without asking for more patients."

He hurried off to attend to other cases, leaving the Sub to speculate
on the surgeon's warning. "All right" hardly described Webb's present
state. He felt considerably battered about, and had a dull headache;
but, he reflected, it wasn't playing the game to lie down when he
felt capable of doing something to assist the general work.

"Mr. Webb!" called out Captain M'Bride, seeing the Sub approach.

Webb hurried up to the captain and saluted.

"Better? That's good," said the skipper. "Look here, muster a party
and start digging a trench on the left of that wall of thorn bushes.
Bring it at a sharp angle to the shore. Three feet deep will be
enough, if you pile the displaced sand on the outside edge of the
trench."

The young officer soon found half a dozen men who had figured on his
watch bill. These, provided with the broken blades of oars, which
formed excellent spades for throwing out soft sand, set strenuously
to work despite the heat of the day.

"Strikes me there's somethink precious hard, sir," remarked an
able-seaman after the party had been at work for twenty minutes.
"Rock or somethink."

"Sandstone, possibly," replied the Sub. "No matter, you're nearly
down to the required depth." The man plied his wooden spade
vigorously in order to lay bare the supposed rock. Suddenly he gave
an exclamation of astonishment.

"Blow me!" he exclaimed, "a bloomin' petrol tin."

With a strenuous heave he wrenched the can from its hiding-place. As
he did so the sides of two adjacent tins were revealed.

"We've found what I believe to be a secret petrol store, sir,"
reported Webb to his skipper.

"Eh, what?" exclaimed Captain M'Bride, hurrying towards the partly
excavated trench. "By Jove, Mr. Webb, it looks like it! Start one of
those metal caps and see if the can really contains petrol."

The cap was removed. Webb poured a small quantity of the liquid into
the palm of his hand. The spirit evaporated with remarkable
quickness.

"Petrol right enough, sir," he announced.

"And there are dozens of cans here, sir," declared one of the men.
"Sort of garidge for the Sahara General Omnibus Company, I'll allow."

"Wot's a garidge, Bill?" enquired his pal. "You means a gayrage,
don't ye?"

The skipper, who had overheard the conversation between the two
seamen, smiled grimly.

"Carry on, Mr. Webb," he said, "and dig up the lot. We've stumbled
upon a German petrol depot--that's my belief--and before long we'll
have an _unterseeboot_ putting in an appearance."

"What shall I do with them, sir?" enquired Tom.

"Oh! reserve a couple," was the reply. "They'll come in handy for
flares. Empty the others on the sand."

"One moment, Captain M'Bride," interposed Major Pane, who, noticing
the excitement, had strolled up to satisfy his curiosity. "It's a
pity to waste good stuff."

"Better to do that than allow it to fall into the hands of the
enemy," remarked Captain M'Bride. "But what suggestion have you to
make, Major?"

"Put a row of them about a hundred yards in front of the zariba,"
continued Fane. "In the event of the Senussi attempting to rush our
defences we can set fire to the stuff."

"I fail to see how, Major," objected Captain M'Bride, "unless someone
applies a light to it; and the effect is, to a certain extent, lost
if we have to do that before the Arabs are actually over the line of
tins. Remember we have no time-fuses."

"You have some good marksmen, I presume?" asked Major Fane.

"Some first-class shots."

"Then we could lash up this metal matchbox to one of the tins, and
ignite the contents by means of a rifle-bullet."

"It might be feasible," remarked the skipper.

"I think I know of a better plan, sir," said Webb. "We have the
Very's pistol and signal-cartridges. I saw them lying over yonder. At
the critical time a few bullets could be shot at one of the tins,
and, when the petrol runs out, it could be fired by a signal-bullet
from the pistol."

"Ah, that's more like it, Mr. Webb!" said the skipper warmly. "Now
set to work and get your men to place the tins in position. Heap sand
on the outward face so that they are rendered as inconspicuous as
possible. Meanwhile, Major, I think I will get you to pass an opinion
upon our defences on the right flank."

The Sub had barely completed his task of constructing what was
expected to form an efficient "fire barrage" when one of the seamen
patrolling the shore gave the warning cry of "Submarine coming in,
sir."

Almost simultaneously a rifle cracked from somewhere about five
hundred yards inland. A Senussi sniper had approached between the
sand-dunes, while, at a distance of a mile or so, was a large armed
party of mounted nomads from the desert.

Sub-lieutenant Webb gave vent to a low whistle.

"A hot corner this time," he said to himself. "We're properly between
two fires."

CHAPTER XVI

'Twixt U-Boat and Arabs

HAD the discovery of the petrol store been made a few hours earlier,
steps would have been taken to cope with the peril from the sea that
menaced the castaways. The defences that had been hurriedly thrown up
had been constructed against attack from the landward side; the
possibility of being shelled from a German submarine had not
previously been taken into account.

Hastily the British seamen set to work to strengthen the parados of
the trenches, in order to convert it into an earthwork sufficiently
strong to resist the comparatively light shells fired from the
hostile submarine.

Bullets from the Senussi now began to sing over the heads of the
defenders. Well it was that the Arabs were very indifferent shots at
long range, otherwise they would have taken a heavy toll of the
seamen who were obliged to present a fair target as they toiled in
the open.

The German submarine, which had been approaching rapidly, had now
eased down. She was running on the surface, showing her conning-tower
and the whole length of her deck. She displayed no colours, but her
two quick-firing guns had been hoisted from below, and were manned
ready for opening fire.

"I feel pretty certain," said Captain M'Bride to Osborne as the
officers kept the hostile craft under observation, "that that
submarine is the one which bagged us--and the _Sunderbund_ as well.
She's been lying off-shore waiting for the weather to moderate in
order to replenish her fuel, and now she finds her depot in our
possession. It was a rotten blunder on her part, sinking the old
_Portchester Castle_ so close to her temporary base."

"If it hadn't been for the firing, perhaps she would have come right
in, sir," remarked Osborne. "Now she has her suspicions."

"The wreck of the ship would in itself give her warning," said the
skipper. "Besides, if she did approach we could do little or nothing.
It's just as likely that there's an understanding between the Arabs
and the Huns. However, we must take things as we find them, and not
look for trouble before it comes."

Accompanied by Lieutenant Osborne, the Captain made a tour of the
trench, where every man who possessed a rifle was kneeling in front
of a loophole, ready at the word of command to pour a destructive
volley into the approaching Arabs. At the left flank stood Webb, with
the Very's pistol in his hand, awaiting the time to fire the petrol.

"Picturesque sight, Mr. Webb," remarked the Captain composedly, but
at the same time his keen eye was trying to detect any sign of
"jumpiness" in the young Sub. But there was none; beyond a slightly
heightened colour, Webb was as cool as if he had been on the
quarter-deck of the _Portchester Castle_.

Captain M'Bride had aptly described the scene that lay before them.
The Senussi were approaching in all the barbaric splendour of their
race. Some were on camels, others astride small wiry horses. With
loose rein they would dash forward perhaps a hundred yards, wheel,
and, firing their rifles somewhere in the direction of the foe, would
tear back for fifty yards, repeating the manoeuvre and uttering
shrill yells of defiance. On their flanks in the rear were crowds of
men on foot, for the most part armed with long broad-bladed spears,
two-edged straight swords, and circular hide shields.

Outnumbering the British by ten to one, the Senussi looked, and were,
formidable. Had every man of the _Portchester Castle_ possessed a
rifle the odds would have been considerably lowered. With a Maxim the
defenders could have regarded the onset as a foregone conclusion in
their favour.

It was to be a tough and desperate struggle. Every man realized
that--a fight to the death, for a worse fate awaited them should they
fall alive into the hands of the savage foe. At all costs the Senussi
must be kept on the far side of the sorry breastwork of sand and the
hedge of thorns, otherwise sheer weight of numbers would decide the
day.

And as if the situation were not serious enough, a U-boat was
threatening to shell their puny defences.

"Don't throw away a single shot, men," cautioned the Captain.
"Reserve your fire till I give the word."

"She's opening the ball, sir," exclaimed Osborne, as a shell from the
U-boat hurtled through the air and exploded away on the right flank,
sending up a huge cloud of smoke and sand.

"Wonder what damage that's done?" remarked Captain M'Bride.

"I'll see, sir, if you wish," said the Lieutenant.

"Do, by all means, Mr. Osborne," was the rejoinder. "I'll make my way
to the centre and await you there."

Before Osborne returned, two more shells had been fired by the
submarine. Whatever damage they might have caused, they also did
good, for the bursting projectiles had the effect of cooling the
ardour of the approaching Arabs. Absolutely fearless as far as
bullets are concerned, they have a wholesome respect for
high-explosive shells which would, in their opinion, render a True
Believer a sorry spectacle when he came to present himself at the
gates of the Mohammedan paradise.

"No casualties, sir," reported Osborne. "The first shell fell short;
the others pitched thirty yards over. One has blown a big gap in our
zariba, unfortunately."

"Strafe her!" exclaimed Captain M'Bride. "She'll be improving on that
before long, I'm afraid."

Even as he spoke there came a loud rumble from seawards--a long
drawn-out report, totally unlike the crisp bark of the German
submarine's quick-firers. Where the modern pirate had been was merely
a dense cloud of greyish smoke.

"She's properly strafed, sir," declared the Lieutenant delightedly,
grasping what he absent-mindedly took to be his uniform cap, with the
result that on removing his calico headgear he brought a handful of
his own hair with it.

"Internal explosion," suggested the skipper. "Well, we've something
to be thankful for. Half our difficulties wiped out in one fell
swoop."

Slowly the smoke dispersed, for there was now practically no wind.
The sea, momentarily agitated by the explosion, had resumed its
oil-like aspect. Not a vestige of wreckage was visible to mark the
grave of yet another of the inglorious pirates. It was indeed a just
retribution. The U-boat, in common with other German war-ships, had
been in the habit of discharging her torpedoes without previously
setting the sinking mechanism according to the recognized rules of
war. Therefore, in the event of a torpedo missing its mark, it would,
at the end of its run, float, and thus become a sort of derelict
mine, instead of sinking to the bottom as these weapons are supposed
to do.

When the submarine attacked the _Portchester Castle_ she had let
loose two torpedoes, one of which hit the mark. The other, passing
under the vessel's stern, came to a standstill a couple of miles off.
By sheer chance the U-boat, while in the act of shelling the shore,
had bumped upon the warhead of the missile she had discharged several
hours previously, with the result that she was practically blown to
pieces with all her officers and crew.

Three hearty cheers from the sun-baked British seamen greeted the
strafing of the craft that was directly responsible for their present
precarious position. Then, having given relief to their pent-up
feelings, the sturdy sailors directed their attention once more to
the danger that threatened them from the landward side.

The Senussi, not knowing what had occurred, and still showing
considerable reluctance to enter the region where the German shells
had fallen, were "marking time". The camel-men had withdrawn behind a
range of sand-hills, but the glint of spear-heads denoted pretty
conclusively that the foe had not decided upon a discreet retirement.

Several times an intrepid sailor stood upon the breastwork, with the
intention of drawing the enemy's fire; but even this tempting bait
did not succeed. The Senussi were evidently going to tire the
defenders by a period of nerve-racking inactivity.

"It's this rotten waiting for something to turn up that makes you
jumpy," declared Webb to Osborne, as during the prolonged lull the
Lieutenant made his way along the trench to see how his chum fared.
"I don't mind so much when these beggars start a rush, but it's the
suspense of expecting them."

"Like our troops on the Somme," rejoined Osborne. "It's the five
minutes' wait before the whistle goes for the men to go over the top
of the parapet, that is such a strain. Once they're off they don't
seem to notice their surroundings. But I've rather bad news, old man.
I've just reported to the skipper that one of those shells has played
Old Harry with the water barricoes. Only three left--and you can
guess what thirst is in this sun-baked spot."

"How long will that last?" asked the Sub.

"Ten days with the utmost economy," said the Lieutenant gravely.

"I say, Osborne----" began Webb.

"Well?"

"Isn't it a good thing, after all, that poor old Laddie isn't with
us? What a horrible time he would have without anything to drink!"

"He would have had half my share whatever happened," declared Osborne
resolutely. "But, unfortunately, there is no necessity for that. I
wish there were."

Webb made no further remark upon the subject. He knew that Osborne
was still awfully cut up about the loss of his pet, and now, rather
clumsily, he had touched upon the matter of the dog's death.

"We do look a pretty pair," he remarked, setting out on a fresh tack.
"Our fond parents wouldn't recognize us if they could see us now."

"They would be very pleased to," was his chum's rejoinder; "or rather,
we should both be most delighted to see them at home. I've had enough
of African sands to last a lifetime. And these flies!"

A petty officer, mopping the perspiration from his face, wriggled
past his comrades in the narrow trench, and approached the Lieutenant
and his chum.

"Cap'n's compliments, sir," he said as he saluted. "He'd like to have
a word with Mr. Webb."

Webb found Captain M'Bride consulting with the gunner and the bos'n.
Seeing Webb hesitate, he signed to him to approach.

"I've a little job on hand, Mr. Webb," he said. "After due
consideration I've decided that you are the best officer I can spare
for the business. We're short of water. Up to the present there is no
sign of the _Restormel_ putting in an appearance to search for us.
The niggers are evidently going to protract their assault and subject
us to a state of siege. So since help is not forthcoming, we must
fetch it. In short, I want you to take the whaler and make a dash for
Crete. Mr. Cox" (indicating the bos'n) "has examined the boat, and
finds that she's seaworthy. A few slight repairs will have to be
made, but they won't take long. The distance is roughly 180 miles,
but perhaps you'll fall in with a vessel before that."

"Hope it won't be a U-boat, sir," remarked the Sub.

"You're game? I need not remind you that it is a risky voyage for an
open boat."

"I'm quite willing, sir," said Webb resolutely.

"As I thought," added the skipper. "Well, good luck! The weather
looks promising, and ten to one you'll get a fair slant of wind
directly you're a few miles from shore."

Delighted at the prospect of being afloat once more, yet reluctant to
have to leave his comrades in dire peril, Webb hastened to make
preparations for his hazardous voyage in the open whaler. He realized
the risk--he also realized the tremendous responsibility, for if he
failed in the enterprise the rest of the survivors of the
_Portchester Castle_ were doomed.

CHAPTER XVII

The Whaler's Voyage

HAVING selected his crew--a matter of personal difficulty--since no
man cared to volunteer to exchange a post of peril for a duty only
slightly less hazardous--Sub-lieutenant Webb proceeded to prepare the
boat for her voyage.

The whaler was one of the Service type, twenty-seven feet in length.
She had two masts, slightly raking aft, and carried "dipping lug"
fore and mainsails--a powerful rig, but one that requires smart and
careful handling when going about in a strong breeze.

The bos'n--the carpenter warrant officer having been lost in the
struggle for the shore--had instructed the carpenter's crew to nail
several pieces of planking across the bows, covering the rough deck
with canvas from some spare sails. Empty barricoes, of which a number
had been cast upon the beach, were lashed to the thwarts, thus
affording considerable buoyancy in the event of the boat being
capsized. These were the only alterations made in preparing the
whaler for her run across to the distant island of Crete.

The number of hands selected for the voyage was the very minimum
required to work the boat. More would unduly weaken the little
garrison ashore; the victualling problem had also to be taken into
account.

"I can only let you have a gallon of water, sir," decided the bos'n,
"and dry biscuit and salt beef enough for two days. Sure 'tis short
rations, but you know, sir, how things go. There are half a dozen
lemons, too, sir; some were washed up before they had been in the
water very long, so I don't suppose they're brackish. A fine thing to
quench the thirst, Mr. Webb."

Having bade his comrades a hearty adieu, the Sub ordered the whaler
to be pushed off. Three cheers were given for the voyagers, the
compliment being returned in right good earnest by the boat's crew.

"Give way, lads," ordered Webb. "Long easy strokes. We'll soon pick
up a breeze."

Steadily the shore receded. Ahead the placid water was ruffled by a
dark-blue line that betokened a smart breeze. Sitting bolt upright
and holding the yoke-lines, the Sub could not help at frequent
intervals turning his head and looking back at the inhospitable sandy
shore. So fierce was the sun that the radiating heat made the barren
dunes appear to quiver, distorting objects ashore. Everything there
seemed quiet. No rifle-shots pulsated on the still air. Beyond a few
seamen, patrolling the beach to look out for further jetsam, there
were no signs of life. The torrid heat had thrown its languorous
spell upon Britons and Senussi alike.

"It's hot enough here, in all conscience," thought Tom. "It must be
like a slow oven ashore." For an hour the men toiled at the oars, the
sweat pouring from their brick-red faces; yet uncomplainingly they
maintained their long swinging strokes, as if they were pulling
across a harbour rather than setting out for a 180-mile voyage.

"Here's the breeze, lads," exclaimed Webb as a faint zephyr fanned
his face. "Well on the starboard quarter, too. Stand by to make
sail."

Thankfully the jaded men boated oars. Willing hands stepped the two
masts, and quickly the powerful dipping lugs were bellying to the
quartering breeze. The water gurgled pleasantly under the whaler's
forefoot, while a long white wake was a silent testimony to the
boat's speed through the blue water.

"Five to six knots now, sir, I'll allow," replied the coxswain in
reply to his officer's query. "She's footing it fine."

"That's what I estimate," agreed the Sub. "If it holds, another
thirty hours ought to bring us within sight of land."

"Not much doubt about it holding, sir," declared the man, glancing to
windward. "Unless I'm much mistaken there'll be a power o' wind afore
nightfall--more'n we'll want," he added under his breath.

"Cover up that hard tack there," ordered the Sub, as the first spray
flew over the gunwale and threatened to soak the scanty supply of
biscuits. "A pull on your fore-sheet there. That's better; now she
feels it."

The whaler was moving now, cutting through the rising waves like a
race-horse. Every stitch of canvas was drawing, while feathers of
spray dashed over the weather bow. But, in spite of these encouraging
conditions, the wind was backing slowly yet steadily. By sunset it
was broad on the starboard beam.

As darkness set in Webb relieved the coxswain at the tiller. Few
words were spoken between them, for the Sub's attention was mainly
directed to windward, ready to cope with any sudden increase of wind.
Either seated or lying on the bottom-boards, the men were engaged in
the time-honoured custom of "chewing the rag" before "turning in" on
their hard couch. Scraps of conversation caught the Sub's ears. He
smiled grimly, for the boat's crew were not discussing the chances of
the hazardous voyage, or the plight of their comrades they had left
behind: an animated discussion was in progress as to which team won
the English Cup in a certain year of that remote period previous to
the outbreak of the greatest war the world has yet seen.

At eight bells the "watch below" turned in, their outlines just
discernible in the starlight as, in unpicturesque attitudes, each
sleeper adapted himself as comfortably to his individual tastes as
hard and unyielding bottom-boards permitted. Their comrades, told off
for the night watches, crouched under the lee of the gunwale,
sheltering from the keen wind, for with the setting of the sun the
temperature had fallen considerably. Clad only in sub-tropical
uniforms and being unprovided with greatcoats, the men felt acutely
the contrast between the heat of the day and the chilliness of the
night. When at length the order came to reef sails, they obeyed
smartly and cheerfully. The very act of doing something was as balm
to their cold and cramped limbs.

Webb had been wise to reef in time. The wind was now for'ard of the
beam and increasing in violence. Directly water showed a tendency to
come over the lee gunwale he had given the order to shorten sail.

He was very anxious--not on account of the rising wind and sea, but
because it was now only just possible to keep the whaler on her
course.

"If the wind backs another point it will head us," he remarked to the
coxswain.

"'Fraid it will, sir," was the imperturbable reply. "I'd as lief up
helm and run for Malta as make board after board and not gain more'n
a few yards to wind'ard."

The Sub had to admit the force of the petty officer's remarks. The
whaler, being unprovided with a drop keel, would make a very
indifferent performance to windward. There were no tidal currents to
help her--the Mediterranean being tideless--and what "drift" there
was would be against her, since the currents in this part of the vast
inland sea are set up solely by the force of the prevailing wind. In
these circumstances it might take a week or more to reach Crete, and
by that time the comrades they had left behind would be conquered by
famine, even if they succeeded in holding in check the savage foes
who menaced them.

Yet there was another chance. The whaler would soon be in the regular
steamer track between Port Said and the Western Mediterranean
seaports. In normal times the probability of aid from passing vessels
would be great; but now, owing to the U-boat menace, things were very
different.

A moaning sound pierced the darkness of the night. In an instant Webb
grasped the situation. A squall was sweeping down.

"Check sheets!" he shouted, at the same time putting the helm down
ever so slightly, so as not to get the boat "in irons".

The squall hit the boat hard. Green seas poured over her bows,
effectually awaking the sleepers. So fierce was the strength of the
wind that the Sub was compelled to order the canvas to be
close-reefed.

By dint of strenuous baling the whaler was kept afloat; yet she was
sagging to leeward like an empty cask. Worse, the wind was now
absolutely dead ahead, and more than enough for the meagre amount of
sail that was still set.

"Think she'll stick it?" shouted Webb to the coxswain.

"No, I don't, sir," replied that worthy bluntly. "Better ride to our
gear while there's time."

The petty officer's advice was sound. To attempt to carry on was a
suicidal policy. As quickly as possible the oars and yard were lashed
together, the foresail being still bent to its spar. To these a scope
of grass rope was attached, and the whole of the gear thrown
overboard, the kedge having been previously bent to the lower part of
the canvas to ensure it floating "up and down".

To this rough-and-ready sea-anchor the whaler rode in comparative
safety, for, although the seas were breaking all around, there was a
complete absence of crested, dangerous waves in the wake of the
floating gear, fifty yards ahead of the boat.

"So well, so good," thought Webb. "But, unfortunately, though we may
have saved our own skins, the fact remains that we are not helping
Captain M'Bride and our comrades ashore."

"She's riding handsomely, sir," remarked the coxswain. "And we've
plenty of sea-room. Short and sharp this has been in coming up, and
maybe 'twill be short and sharp when it does pipe down."

Slowly the minutes sped. The inactivity, combined with a prolonged
lack of sleep, was beginning to tell upon the young officer. Once or
twice he found his head involuntarily dropping on his chest.

"All right, sir," said the coxswain, who had "spotted" his superior
officer's movements. "Just you have forty winks. Nothin' doin'; and
I'll pass the word if there is."

It seemed less than a few minutes when Webb was roused by the petty
officer touching him on the shoulder.

"Vessel o' sorts bearin' down, sir."

There was no time to be lost if help was to be forthcoming in that
direction. Already the black outlines of a large ship were looming
through the night mirk.

The whaler was without means of signalling. Webb found himself
wishing that he had brought the Very's pistol with him, until he
reflected that it might perform an even greater service in the
defence of the zariba. There were no rockets in the boat; neither
flashing lamp nor flare. Not even matches, for the very scanty stock
had been used up in a fruitless attempt to light the binnacle lamp,
which had been found lying in the bottom of the boat when she had
come ashore half-filled with water. Nor was there a rifle on board.
Every available weapon was required by the men facing the Senussi.

"Stand by to give a hail, men," cautioned the Sub. "When I give the
word, then all together. Luckily she'll pass to leeward of us."

At Webb's order the night echoed to the stentorian tones of the
whaler's crew. It must have been impossible for the officer of the
watch not to have heard the combined efforts of the strong-lunged
men.

"She's not slowing down, sir," said one of the men, after a pause.

"Give her time," replied the Sub, hoping against hope that the vessel
would respond to the appeal for aid.

But no; instead of reversing engines she ported helm, and at full
speed was soon lost to sight in the darkness.

"Rale haythens, sure they be!" muttered an Irishman indignantly.

Webb took the acute disappointment philosophically. These were times
when unprecedented horrors encompassed the mariner--cold-blooded
murder in the darkness of the night by cowardly lurking U-boats.
Cases had been known of German vessels of war luring their victims to
destruction by false signals of distress, and it was more than likely
that the officer of the watch of the unknown ship, hearing the hail,
had come to the conclusion that it was a decoy cry from a hostile
submarine, and had altered her course in order to avoid a torpedo.

With the first streaks of dawn the wind moderated, although dead
ahead. The seas, still high, no longer maintained their vicious,
crested aspect. It was now safe to rehoist sail, and, accordingly,
the sea-anchor was brought on board and the masts restepped.

The Sub had already made up his mind to steer westward. With luck he
might reach Malta, or at least fall in with some of the numerous
war-ships that make Valetta their base.

As luck would have it, the "traveller", or iron ring that runs up and
down the mast and to which is attached the yard, was jerked upwards
during the operation of making sail. Slackening the halyard made no
difference. The elusive ring remained at a tantalizing distance of
two or three inches above the tallest man's outstretched hand, and
there was no boat-hook to bring it down.

Webb was about to order the mast to be unstepped, when one of the men
swarmed up the swaying pole and recovered the "traveller". As he did
so he happened to glance to windward.

"A sail!" he shouted. "Coming bows on."

For a few minutes all on board the whaler were in a state of
suspense. The vessel was approaching rapidly, but to a great extent
was obscured by the cloud of black smoke that was carried ahead by
the following wind.

"Hurrah, lads!" exclaimed the coxswain. "She's a destroyer."

Soon there was no doubt on the matter. She was a large four-funnelled
torpedo-boat destroyer with a red, white, and green ensign at each
masthead, indicating her to be a unit of the Italian Navy. The one
fly in the ointment was the disconcerting sight of the bow
twelve-pounder gun manned and trained upon the whaler.

CHAPTER XVIII

In the Nick of Time

"STEADY, lads! Aim low. Don't throw a single shot away."

Calmly and resolutely Captain M'Bride's voice travelled along the
whole length of the trench. Every man possessing a rifle gripped the
weapon resolutely, while the rest of the defenders, armed with
whatever means of defence came to hand, braced themselves for the
coming desperate struggle.

It was close on sunset. Not a breath of wind tempered the still
stifling heat. The gale of wind that had beset the whaler had not yet
reached the sun-baked sand-dunes where the _Portchester Castle's_
survivors still held grimly to their scanty defences.

After a series of feints extending over the greater part of the day,
the Senussi were at last about to make a determined onslaught. The
camel-men had dismounted and sent their docile animals out of harm's
way, but the horsemen had massed in a long curved line of foot. There
was some semblance of military order in the array, taught no doubt by
their former Turkish instructors, for on each flank, and on rising
ground, riflemen were posted so as to pour a converging force upon
the British, while the horsemen, supported by hundreds of dismounted
Arabs armed with sword and spear, charged the extreme left of the
defences.

This was a masterly stroke that Captain M'Bride had not anticipated,
for here the trench ran in a diagonal direction to the sea, and if
carried would expose the rear of the centre to a flanking and
enfilading fire. But what the attackers did not know was the
existence of a novel form of _fougasse_--the row of petrol tins.

Clearly the foremost of the assailants were visible in the slanting
rays of the setting sun. Behind them followed a cloud of sand, thrown
up by the horses' hoofs, through which could be discerned the
indistinct forms of a howling mob of fanatical warriors armed with
cold steel. In the forefront rode a tall bearded fellow with green
jibbah and turban. With his right hand he brandished a long, straight
two-edged sword, while in his left he bore a green banner with a
scarlet crescent.

"They are not fighting under Turkish colours," remarked Captain
M'Bride to Dacres, who stood by his side. "A sort of Holy War banner,
I take it."

Evidently Afir-al-Bahr was of the same opinion, and, finding that he
had not to fight against a force under the Turkish Crescent, he
picked up a huge axe that had come ashore in one of the ship's boats.

"What's that fellow doing?" enquired the skipper hurriedly.

Dacres, whose service in Egypt had made him fairly proficient with
the language of the Eastern Mediterranean States, spoke a few words
to the Turkish airman.

"I think it's all right, Captain M'Bride," explained Dacres. "The man
has no intention of breaking his parole. He knows quite well that if
he should fall alive into the hands of the Senussi their treatment
would be much worse than ours. He told me that some time ago a party
of these meek and mild gentlemen mutinied, and murdered their Ottoman
officers."

"Then let him carry on," decided the skipper. He gave a quick glance
in the direction of the oncoming foe. The foremost were now within
two hundred yards.

"Volley firing by sections--ready!"

A well-timed volley burst from the British trench. The high-velocity
bullets, fired at point-blank range, wrought havoc in the crowded
ranks of the Senussi. Saddles were emptied by the dozen, and before
the stricken riders had time to fall to the ground the second section
poured in a murderous fire.

Yet undaunted the Senussi pressed on, the standard-bearer, apparently
unhurt, still brandishing his gleaming weapon. Then, slowly yet
surely, he began to lean forward until he lay across the horse's
neck. The banner dropped from his nerveless grasp just as a bullet,
striking the animal on its white blaze, brought man and steed to the
ground.

In an instant another Arab had snatched up the green flag, and, with
redoubled shouts, the dense and now disorganized mob came thundering
across the level stretch of ground in front of the zariba.

It was now Osborne's time to take up the work with which the absent
Webb had charged him. Already one of the bright-red petrol cans had
been holed by a couple of accurately placed shots, and the highly
volatile fluid was escaping and soaking into the hot sand. The
Lieutenant could even detect the pungent fumes of the evaporating
spirit. Raising the short, smooth-bored pistol, Osborne pressed the
trigger. The missile--a red rocket--burst against the perforated tin,
just as the foremost of the assailants were leaping over the mound
that partly concealed the line of tins.

The next instant flames shot twenty feet or more into the air--a fire
so intense that the heat could be distinctly felt by the defenders of
the trench, while the zariba quivered in the current of air set up by
the sudden rise of temperature.

Five seconds later the adjacent tin exploded, and then another and
another, until the tongues of fire darted a good fifty feet skywards.

That part of the attack was checked and beaten back. The fire barrage
was impassable; but on the enemy's left their impetuous rush brought
them right up to the zariba.

Dauntlessly the Arabs sought to tear away the prickly barrier. Rifles
cracked, but the number of small arms at the disposal of the British
was insufficient to annihilate--it could only diminish--the great
superiority of the enemy's forces.

Several of the seamen, armed with knives and marline-spikes lashed to
the end of oars and poles, rendered yeoman service by the use of
these improvised pikes. Others, having provided themselves with a
supply of large stones, hurled them across the intervening barrier at
the nearmost of their assailants.

Nor was Afir-al-Bahr to be denied. With his axe he fought
desperately, dealing smashing blows whenever a fanatical Arab
succeeded in getting within reach.

For some moments the situation was extremely critical. The improvised
pikes were no match for the long broad-bladed, razor-edged spears,
and the advantage of fighting behind the zariba was fast disappearing
as the fearless and desperate Senussi persevered in the work of
tearing away the wall of thorns.

Against these tremendous odds the handful of the _Portchester
Castle's_ crew fought magnificently, making the best use of their
ungainly weapons. British courage and dogged pluck were there. The
men meant to hold their position at all costs, but already the
numbers were being thinned by the relentless pressure of the Arab
assault.

At this critical juncture Captain M'Bride, realizing that the British
left was in no immediate danger--for the contents of the whole line
of exploded petrol cans were blazing furiously--rushed up every
available rifleman. In a few moments the attack, that had had every
appearance of being successful, broke down. The Arabs melted away,
the survivors retreating in disorder, leaving fifty or more of their
number huddled in front of the partly demolished zariba, and others
at varying distances from the defences.

"We've been and gone and done it now," commented Major Fane.

"How's that?" queried Dacres, as he held out his left wrist for his
chum to apply a bandage to a deep but clean gash caused by the
partly-parried thrust of a spear.

"We've fired all the petrol except the two tins we held in reserve.
We have none available to repeat the dose."

"I fancy they've had quite enough, eh, what?" rejoined Dacres.
"Thanks, old man, it feels absolutely all right. A trifle on the
tight side, perhaps, but for an amateur, Billy, you know how to
doctor a fellow. Hallo, Osborne; how goes it? My word, that petrol
flare shook 'em up a bit; but we needn't have used the lot. I was
just saying----"

"It is indeed unfortunate," interposed Captain M'Bride. "We certainly
ought not to have used the whole quantity. I had no idea that it
would make such a furnace. Nearly lifted my eyebrows off, by Jove!"

"It's my opinion that the Arabs won't come up for a second dose,"
remarked Dacres.

"If they do they'll exercise more caution," said the skipper. "We
must be prepared for a night attack. I've told off a party to pick up
the rifles, ammunition, and spears of the Senussi left on the field.
Mr. Osborne, will you see that the zariba is repaired?"

The Lieutenant saluted, and hurried away to carry out the Captain's
order. Already twenty additional Mauser rifles had been brought in,
and about four hundred rounds of ammunition. These were served out to
the seamen, the recipients being specially cautioned to keep the
captured ammunition apart from the British Service cartridges, so
that no confusion would arise in the event of a possible attack
during the hours of darkness.

Osborne had not allowed the lessons of the grim conflict to pass
without gaining useful hints. At his suggestion the zariba was
increased in thickness, the height remaining the same, while the
ground for a width of twenty yards in front was liberally "salted"
with sharp-pointed thorns that were buried "business end uppermost"
in the sand, leaving a couple of inches projecting as a trap for
unwary and unshod feet.

Since there was not another _fougasse_ to fire, the Lieutenant loaded
the Very's pistol and lashed it to the stump of a bush about a
hundred yards from the trenches. To the trigger he tied a thin piece
of cord, obtained by unreeving the strands of a length of rope, and
secured the other end to a picket driven deeply into the sand. In the
event of any of the Senussi creeping up to the defences at night,
contact with the cord would instantly give the alarm.

By dint of hard work, these preparations were completed before the
short twilight gave place to intense darkness. It was now blowing
hard from the nor'east, and, in spite of the fact that only a narrow
strip of ground lay between the rear of the trenches and the sea, the
defences were exposed to irritating clouds of fine sand that
penetrated almost everything--even the intricate breech-mechanism of
the magazine rifles.

"I wonder how the whaler is faring?" was the question that rose to
the lips of almost every member of the shipwrecked crew, not once but
many times. With the rising breeze the men realized that the boat had
a dead beat to wind'ard, and that, even if she could still carry
canvas, her progress towards the distant goal would be very, very
slow.

The night was cold, for the sand radiated its heat with remarkable
rapidity, while the on-shore wind was bitterly keen. Without adequate
clothing the men suffered acutely, their condition accentuated by the
quick contrast with the scorching rays of the sun during the day.
Those not detailed for sentry work huddled together in the trenches,
the wounded being provided with awnings fashioned from the boats'
sails stretched between pairs of oars. Slowly the hours passed, for,
although not a single watch belonging to the castaways had survived
the prolonged immersion in salt water, a fairly accurate count of
time could be kept by means of the position of certain well-known
stars.

At about midnight the sky was overcast, and even this means of
calculating time was at an end. In utter silence the sentries
maintained a vigilant look-out, while their comrades either dozed
fitfully or lay awake, shivering with cold, and on thorns of
expectancy for the night attack.

Suddenly the tense stillness of the night was broken by a sharp
report, followed by the appearance of a vivid light two hundred feet
or more in the air. The Very pistol had been discharged.

Instantly the defenders sprang to their feet. Those having rifles
manned the loopholes, opened the "cut-offs" of the magazines, and
prepared to pour a withering fire into the expected mass of Senussi.

But nothing in the nature of a wild chorus of war-cries pierced the
darkness. In the distance could be heard sounds of commotion amongst
the Arabs, who had encamped at about two or three miles from the
scene of the previous encounter. In front of the zariba all was
quiet.

"Did you see anything, Wilson?" asked Osborne of one of the sentries.

"Nothing, sir," was the reply. "And when that rocket went off it was
as clear as day, in fact my eyes are still dazzled by the light."

"Perhaps it was a sniper or a scout," suggested Dacres, who at the
first alarm had hurried to his post.

"If so, I fancy he's made himself scarce," added Osborne.

"By the by, Osborne," remarked Major Fane, "did you set that cord up
fairly tight when you fixed it to the trigger?"

"As taut as I dared," replied the Lieutenant. "It wanted only a
four-pound pull to set off the cartridge."

"Then I fancy I can explain," continued the Major. "You didn't make
any allowance for the contraction of the cord with the dew."

Osborne bit his lip. He was too straightforward to offer excuses. He
knew perfectly well the effect of damp upon rope, and at this
critical time he had omitted to make practical use of his knowledge.
The false alarm had turned out every man when they badly needed sleep
and rest.

The Very's pistol was reloaded and the trigger-line slacked off. Once
more the men not on sentry sought to gain some hours of slumber in
their uncomfortable surroundings.

The rest of the night passed without further incident, the enemy
making no further attempt to molest the camp. With the dawn the
defenders were roused. A small quantity of water, half a biscuit, and
a morsel of salt beef were served out, and on this scanty ration each
man had to exist for the next six hours.

"Where's that Turkish fellow?" enquired Osborne. "He hasn't put in an
appearance for his food."

No one had seen him, for owing to his religious scruples the Ottoman
aviator had constructed his shelter at a little distance to the rear
of the trench.

"I seed 'im makin' for his caboodle just after that there set-to last
night, sir," volunteered one of the seamen. "Shall I rout 'im out?"

"No, I'll go," said Dacres. "I can speak his lingo." And crossing the
intervening stretch of sand he reached the artificial hollow that the
Turk had dug out.

Afir-al-Bahr was lying on his side; his "prayer-carpet", which devout
Mohammedans carry with them in all circumstances, was spread at his
feet. To all appearance the Turk was sleeping peacefully--but it was
the sleep of death. During the attack on the zariba he had received a
mortal wound; yet, with a remarkable reticence, he had crawled away
to die in solitude.

They buried him hastily in the hollow he had constructed. No volleys
were fired over his grave--cartridges were too precious for that; no
"Last Post" rent the air, since no bugle was available. Yet the
homage of the _Portchester Castle's_ ship's company to a brave and
gallant enemy--a man who had done his level best to blow the ship to
pieces, and had afterwards fought side by side with his country's
foes--was none the less sincere.

Hardly had the last rites been accomplished when signs of renewed
activity were visible amongst the Senussi. During the night their
numbers had been augmented by other bands of desert nomads, until the
present strength more than exceeded the force that had delivered the
previous attack with such disastrous results.

Yet the Arabs appeared to be in no immediate hurry. Evidently they
guessed that the defenders were scantily supplied with food and
water. They could afford to wait until the British, faint with
hunger, and weakening under the effect of the enervating, torrid
atmosphere, would be unable to offer any strenuous resistance.

"I almost wish they'd make a move, by Jove, I do!" remarked Dacres.
"Suppose I oughtn't to say it though, since the longer they wait the
more chance we have of rescue; but it's slow work hanging on to a
mound of sand and expecting those fellows to make a rush."

"Looks as though your half-expressed wish will be gratified, old
man," replied Major Fane, as a swarm of white-robed men edged along
to the right of the defenders' position, taking considerable care to
keep good cover. "See their move? They're making for the beach. If
they get behind us, there'll be the deuce to pay!"

The tactics of the Senussi necessitated a rearrangement of the
defenders. At Captain M'Bride's order, those of the riflemen who had
been armed with rifles taken from the dead Arabs were detached from
the centre and moved to a flanking position, so as to command the
approach along the shore. Those seamen who had brought their own
rifles were still retained in front of the zariba, so as to check any
frontal attack.

Meanwhile Osborne, assisted by two volunteers, boldly left the
shelter of the trenches and began to dig up the scorched and
blistered petrol tins. These they set up in a conspicuous place a few
yards in front of the original line, coolly completing the task in
spite of an erratic fire from the Arab sharpshooters.

"What's the move?" enquired Dacres when the Lieutenant returned
safely to shelter.

"It may work; it's a little ruse," replied Osborne. "They'll see
the tins easily enough. I've put the best side of them facing
outwards. If they think that we'll be able to repeat the
curtain-of-fire business, they'll think twice before making a frontal
attack. It's quite bad enough to be taken in the rear of both flanks,
without a direct rush."

"There's the green banner again," exclaimed Fane. "That looks like
business."

"Steady, my lads," shouted the heroic skipper. "Let 'em have it."

The rattle of musketry sounded along the shore. The result surpassed
all expectation, for, to the defenders' surprise, scores of Senussi
toppled over on the sand, some writhing, although for the most part
those who fell lay still. The rush ended abruptly, the rest of the
Arabs turning and running at full speed for the shelter of the dunes.

"That's knocked the stuffing out of them," declared Captain M'Bride.
"Now, lads, there's another haul of equipment."

A dozen or more of the seamen who did not possess rifles made their
way through the zariba, and approached the fallen foe with the
intention of despoiling them of their arms. While engaged in this
task, quite fifty of the fallen Senussi sprang to their feet, and
fell upon the tricked men. The ruse was disastrous as far as the
defenders were concerned, for those remaining in the trenches dare
not fire for fear of hitting their comrades. Before a rescue-party
could approach, the over-eager despoilers, hopelessly outnumbered,
were cut down to a man, while the cunning Arabs, pursued by a fierce
fire from the vengeful defenders, succeeded in regaining the main
body with severe losses.

The handful of the _Portchester Castle's_ crew who had fallen in this
daring ruse could ill be spared. Although they had fought and died
gamely, and had accounted for more of the enemy than their own
numbers, the relative loss went against the beleaguered force. They
had gained experience at a high price.

Another grave discovery was brought home to the sorely pressed men.
Their ammunition was running short. Magazine rifle-fire is apt to
make heavy inroads upon the stock of cartridges, and, although the
men had exercised considerable restraint and had hardly thrown away a
single shot; the fact remained that the supply had dwindled down to
less than a couple of hundred.

"And the worst of it is," confided Major Fane, "we have those four
women--passengers from the _Sunderbund_--in our hands. They are as
plucky as one could wish; by Jove, they are! If the worst comes to
the worst----"

"Yes, Major," added Captain M'Bride quietly. "I understand. We must
never let them fall alive into the hands of these brutes."

Throughout the rest of the morning and well into the afternoon the
Senussi continued their wearing-down tactics, making numerous feints,
either singly or simultaneously at different points; yet no definite
attack matured. All the while a long-range fire was directed upon the
defences, and although the enemy wasted prodigious quantities of
ammunition the net result was two men severely, and four slightly
wounded.

"Now they mean business, I fancy," said Major Fane, as a tremendous
hubbub, in which the beating of drums figured largely, came from the
enemy position. "These fellows seem to fancy the hours before
sunset."

A vast semicircle of dark-featured Arabs, their strength now
exceeding three thousand, told pretty plainly that the defences were
to be rushed from all available directions. This time, save for a few
exceptions, all the attackers were on foot, although in the centre
rode another green-turbaned Amir, bearing the emerald-hued banner
that was to bring victory to the Faithful.

Even as the survivors of the _Portchester Castle_ stood ready for the
order to open fire, the air was torn by the shrill screech of a heavy
projectile, quickly followed by another and another. With a
succession of terrific crashes, twelve-pounder shells burst fairly
amidst the dense serried ranks of the Senussi. It was more than
fanatical courage could stand. They broke and fled, leaving the green
banner torn to shreds in the grasp of the lifeless Amir.

Too utterly done up even to cheer, the rescued garrison gazed
seawards. Less than two miles from shore, and pelting onwards at a
good twenty-five knots, was a British destroyer. It was rescue in the
very nick of time.

CHAPTER XIX

Misunderstandings

WE left Sub-lieutenant Tom Webb and the whaler's crew in the act of
being rescued by a destroyer flying the Italian ensign. The vessel
was the _Bersagliere_, a 28-knot boat armed with four
twelve-pounders.

It was not sheer luck that brought it to the rescue of the Sub and
his companions. The liner that had passed them in the night was not
so callous as they had supposed. Although she dared not stop to
investigate the cause of the shouting, fearing the presence of a
hostile submarine, she had sent out a wireless message in the
International Code, reporting on the circumstance, giving the
approximate position, and suggesting the possibility of a U-boat.

The call was picked up by several patrolling war-ships, amongst them
the _Bersagliere_. The latter being nearest to the position
indicated, set off at full speed, and cleared for action in the event
of meeting with a U-boat which had resorted to the device of using a
decoy.

The Italian destroyer's people were unremitting in their attentions
to what they supposed to be the sole survivors of a British naval
craft. Not one of either officers or crew could understand English,
nor could Webb and his men speak a word of Italian, and the Sub's
endeavour to indicate by means of signs that the rest of the
survivors were cast ashore on the Tripolitan coast, and were in dire
peril from the Senussi, was fruitless.

The commanding officer of the _Bersagliere_ did his best, but,
unfortunately, with somewhat disconcerting results. He wirelessed in
International Code the news that he had on board the sole survivors
of the British war-ship _Portchester Castle_. The message was picked
up and decoded by several vessels, and also the naval receiving
station at Malta, and within a very short time of the rescue of the
whaler's crew the inaccurate news was transmitted to the Admiralty.

Webb and his comrades were, of course, ignorant of this stage of the
proceedings. They knew, however, that they were being taken in a
nor'westerly direction by the destroyer--farther and farther away
from the scene of the unequal conflict ashore. Instead of bringing
aid to the hard-pressed Captain M'Bride and his handful of undaunted
men, they were being spirited away to an unknown
destination--possibly Castellamare or some other distant Italian
naval port.

"'Spose these Eytalians thinks as 'ow they are doin' their level
best," remarked one man to his "raggie". "Strikes me we're being
bloomin' well kidnapped. Look 'ere, Ginger; you can 'andle a pencil.
Just you draw a sort o' sketch of our chaps ashore, an' put a few
niggers in. That might do the trick."

Ginger pondered. The trouble was to get pencil and paper. The rest
was simple, for he had a strong reputation amongst his lower-deck
mates as an artist.

The difficulty was overcome by boldly commandeering a pad and pencil
from the _Bersagliere's_ signalman, somewhat to the surprise of the
good-natured Italian; then, surrounded by interested spectators of
both the Allied navies, Ginger proceeded with his task.

"'Ere we are," he explained. "Them's the sand-dunes; 'ere's the
skipper, Number One, an' Lootenant Osborne. This is the zayreber;
them's the enemy. That orter do the trick, didn't it, mates?"

"'Spose so," admitted one of the whaler's men rather dubiously. "A
little smoke chucked in would improve the picture, I'll allow."

The artist reluctantly admitted the force of the criticism, and
proceeded to depict far more vapour than modern engagements with
smokeless powder justified. Then, stepping up to one of the
_Bersagliere's_ officers, he tendered his handiwork.

The Italian took the drawing and examined it intently and
sympathetically. He was obviously puzzled for some minutes. Then a
smile lit up his olivine features, and he spoke a few words to one of
his men.

"Guess he's off to explain to the skipper of this packet," declared
Ginger's pal. "I knowed that 'ud do the trick."

But instead of making his way to the bridge the Italian seaman went
below. The British tars regarded each other with feelings akin to
consternation, nor was their surprise any the less when the man
reappeared with a dish containing a "plum duff" liberally provided
with currants.

The artistic idol of the _Portchester Castle's_ ship's company was
shattered.

"Arter all," decided the coxswain, "'tain't to be wondered at,
Ginger. Those sand-dunes of yourn do look like the outlines of a
'spotted Dick', smoke an' all; but I guess the owner wouldn't be
pleased to find he'd been mistaken for a bloomin' currant."

Almost immediately afterwards attention was directed in another
direction, for a vessel was sighted on the starboard bow. In a few
moments, for both craft were moving rapidly, the stranger was found
to be the British destroyer _Paradox_.

An exchange of signals followed. The _Paradox_ had been one of the
vessels that had received the _Bersagliere's_ wireless message, and
it was with the intention of taking over the survivors of the
_Portchester Castle_ that she had made towards the Italian destroyer.

Once more Sub-lieutenant Webb trod the decks of a craft flying the
white ensign; while the two destroyers, dipping their flags by way of
a courteous international salute, proceeded on different courses the
_Bersagliere_ "holding on", while to her commander's astonishment he
saw the British craft circle to port, and steam off at full speed in
a south-easterly direction, instead of returning to her base at Suda
Bay.

Webb had lost no time in explaining to the Lieutenant of the
_Paradox_ that Captain M'Bride and a considerable number of men were
at bay on the Tripolitan coast; while to his surprise the Sub learnt
of the inaccurate wireless message from the _Bersagliere_ reporting
the whaler's crew as sole survivors of the ill-fated _Portchester
Castle_.

"We'll be in time yet, I think," remarked the commanding officer of
the _Paradox_. "You reckoned to fetch Crete in an open boat and yet
be able to summon assistance. We've saved you at least twenty-four
hours. Yes, I'll see that a wireless correcting the previous
inaccurate report is sent off; but I think I'll wait till we've seen
this business through."

Upon approaching the coast Webb could distinctly hear the rattle of
musketry. That was a good sign. It told him that Captain M'Bride and
his men were still holding out.

At twenty-five knots the _Paradox_ was soon within range of her
twelve-pounders. In the slanting rays of the setting sun the dense
masses of the Senussi could be distinctly made out. It was a target
that could not well be missed.

Six rounds were sufficient. The Lieutenant-commander, standing on the
destroyer's bridge, thrust his binoculars into their case with an
emphatic snap.

"Good enough!" he exclaimed. "Cease fire--out boats!"

Bringing the _Paradox_ to a standstill close to the almost submerged
wreck of the _Portchester Castle_, and keeping between the latter and
the shore--a precaution necessary should hostile submarines be in the
vicinity--her skipper lost no time in taking off the survivors of the
torpedoed armed merchant-cruiser. Yet before the evacuation of the
zariba was accomplished night had fallen.

"I thought you would not fail us, Mr. Webb," was Captain M'Bride's
greeting as he came over the side. "You've been very quick over the
business. How did you fare when the wind piped up?"

"Sheer good luck, sir," replied the Sub modestly. "We were picked up
by an Italian destroyer and afterwards transferred to the _Paradox_."

The skipper of the _Portchester Castle_ kept his young officer
engaged in conversation for some time, during which Webb's eyes were
periodically turned in the direction of the returning boats. Yes,
thank God! there was Osborne, apparently safe and sound; Dacres too,
and Major Fane; most of the ship's officers whom Webb had left behind
when he made his dash in the whaler.

At length his Captain dismissed him, and went below to enjoy the
hospitality of the diminutive ward-room. Webb made his way across to
where Osborne was standing.

"Hallo, old bird--back again, you see!" was the Lieutenant's
greeting, informal, but none the less hearty.

"Where's Haynes?" enquired Webb, after returning his chum's
salutation. "I've been looking out for him, but all the boats have
returned."

"You're a bright lad not to spot your chums," rejoined Osborne. "He
was one of the first to be brought off. He got it badly almost at the
last lap--a gunshot wound in the side. Donovon's got him in hand now.
'Fraid Haynes' career in the Service is a closed book."

"Sorry to hear that," said the Sub. "I only hope you're wrong,
Osborne."

"Wouldn't be the first time," admitted the Lieutenant. "I made a fine
mess of things ashore just now." And he told his chum the episode of
the Very pistol.

"Do you know where we are bound for?" he continued.

"Port Said--so I heard the Navigating Lieutenant of the _Paradox_
say," replied Webb. "I was hoping that it was Malta; still, one
mustn't complain after what we've been through. Not that we'll find
Egypt particularly exciting just for the present. From all accounts
there's precious little doing."

But Sub-lieutenant Webb was mistaken in his surmise. Before very long
he was to find that the Land of the Pharaohs was anything but a place
for an uneventful existence.

CHAPTER XX

The Desert Wireless Station

"DONKEY, sah? Good donkey, sah? Me good dragoman. Talk Englis' like
Englisman, sah. Me good----"

"Oh, chuck it, do!" exclaimed Osborne. "No can do; savee?"

It was on the outskirts of Alexandria. Osborne and Webb, already
"bored stiff" with the doubtful charms of the sun-baked Egyptian
seaport, were longing to be afloat once more. Up to the present their
wishes in that direction had not been gratified. In common with the
rest of the surviving officers and crew of the lost _Portchester
Castle_, they were resting, first at Port Said and then at
Alexandria, pending Admiralty instructions and appointment to another
ship.

Early on this particular afternoon the two chums had gone for a walk
beyond the limits of the town. It was a glorious chance to tramp on a
broiling hot day, in a place where almost everyone rides, and then
only when it is necessary to be out and about. It was the time of
siesta, or midday rest, but the superabundant energies of the two
young officers were not to be denied. Both carried revolvers--a
precaution rendered necessary by the existing conditions of the
Egyptian frontiers.

Barely had they drawn clear of the squalid native quarter when they
were assailed by the demonstrative attention of a swarm of 'Gippy
donkey-boys, whose natural cupidity overcame their curiosity at the
sight of two Englishmen braving the scorching heat of the sun.

By dint of very forcible language, backed by a pretence of forcible
methods, Osborne had succeeded in freeing himself and his companion
from the undesired attentions of the mob, with one exception. The
latter, a tall, sparely built fellah, hung on like a leech.

"Tomb of Ctesos, sah," he vociferated. "Not far. Far to walk, but not
far for donkey, sah. Twen'-fivee piastres" (up went the fingers of
his right hand five times to emphasize the point) "all de way. Dirty
cheap, sah."

Osborne hesitated and was lost.

"Tomb of Ctesos?" he repeated. "H'm, I've heard of it. Sort of ruined
pyramid, I believe, Tom. Well, it's something definite to do. How
about it?"

"I'm on," replied Webb. "Figuratively, of course. When it comes to
the back of a donkey it may be a different matter."

"The brutes look quiet enough," resumed Osborne, eyeing the three
sorry-looking donkeys, who were continually flicking their ears in a
vain attempt to rid themselves of the tormenting attentions of a
swarm of flies. "All right," he added, addressing the donkey-boy.
"Twenty-five piastres, mind!"

The 'Gippy extended a grimy, sunburned hand. "On de nail," he
exclaimed, making use of one of many English idioms that he had
picked up in the course of his dealings with tourists in pre-war
days, and with British and Australian troops since the outbreak of
hostilities.

The officers smiled. The words, coming from the lips of a
dark-skinned Egyptian, tickled them. The fellow's eyes looked so
pathetic and trustful that Osborne obligingly paid for the hire of
the animals.

Evidently the guide was not going to exert himself by walking.
Throwing himself upon the back of the third donkey he urged the
brutes into a steady trot, yelling the while in a jargon of English
and Arabic, and belabouring the animals with a stick.

"Avast there!" said Osborne authoritatively. "Stop it! Not so much of
the stick business. They'll go just as well without."

The "boy"--he was a man of between twenty-five and thirty--obeyed,
but only for a time. Ere long he began to thrash the animals again.

"For the second time, stop it!" thundered the Lieutenant.

The donkey-driver muttered something under his breath. A momentary
scowl flashed across his olivine features. If looks could kill,
Osborne would have been stretched lifeless in the desert.

On and on the donkeys went, sometimes trotting, at others plodding
stolidly through the sand; for already the cotton-fields had been
left behind, and nothing but the desert could now be seen, bounded on
the right hand by the intricate swamps of Lake Mareotis. Before they
had gone five miles, both the officers discovered, to their great
discomfort, that their mounts possessed very aggressive backbones,
the pain from the sharp edges of which the meagre native saddle did
little to mitigate.

"How much farther?" enquired Webb.

"Not far," was the 'Gippy's non-committal reply.

"Hanged if I don't think the rascal is taking us past the place,"
declared Osborne, indicating a solidly constructed building on the
left, at a distance of about three-quarters of a mile.

The donkey-boy saw the gesture.

"No, sah, no," he expostulated earnestly. "Him no good. Nothing dere;
empty. Tomb of Ctesos, sah, him be right dere."

"Dash the tomb of Ctesos!" declared Osborne. "It's not good enough.
Look here, Ali Babi; we've chucked the idea. We'll have a look at
this place instead. We may find shelter from the sun, and get back in
the cool of the evening."

The suggestion did not at all meet with the native's approval.
Obviously he had strong reasons against falling in with the proposal.

"Evidently our dusky dragoman considers this to be a breach of
contract," observed Webb.

"Can't imagine why," rejoined Osborne. "If what he says is correct
with reference to the direction of this precious tomb, we're saving
his animals a considerable distance. He who pays the piper calls the
tune, you know; so let's be firm."

Accordingly, the two officers turned the donkeys in the direction of
the ruined building that Osborne had indicated. With ill-concealed
sullenness the Egyptian slowed down, riding at twenty paces in the
rear of the chums.

Suddenly he gave vent to a shrill cry. Instantly the animals that
Osborne and Webb were bestriding came to a dead standstill; then,
keeping their forefeet planted firmly in the ground, they lashed out
furiously with their hind legs.

In vain Webb attempted to keep his saddle. Describing an inelegant
curve he alighted on his head in the sand. Fortunately the softness
of the ground deadened the impact; but, feeling considerably shaken,
he regained his feet to find Osborne sitting regarding him ruefully.
As for the donkeys, they were skeltering off more quickly than they
had done before in the course of that afternoon, while the 'Gippy,
still astride his mount, jeered at his employers until he was out of
ear-shot.

"The fellow's got his own back," admitted Osborne, laughing at his
own discomfiture. "And we paid him beforehand, worse luck! No matter!
we'll carry on now we're about it, and inspect this ruined show. If
we start at four o'clock we ought to be back before sunset, and it
won't be so oppressively hot to pad the hoof."

"We're taking a long time to cover this half-mile," remarked Webb,
when after a steady tramp the ruins seemed no nearer. "Suppose it
isn't a mirage, what?"

"Hope not," replied Osborne. Then he had to admit that the real
distance had been diminished by the vagaries of the atmosphere.
Although the tomb, or whatever it might be, was a real object, it had
seemed to be less than three-quarters of a mile away when Osborne
first noticed it. Actually it was four times that distance.

At last they approached the elusive building. It consisted of a
rectangular central edifice with a few smaller buildings attached.
The roof was originally a dome, but the greater portion had fallen
in. Fronting the main portion was a row of weather-worn pillars of
red sandstone, ground smooth by the action of the sand-storms of
centuries. In places the portico still remained, but was evidently in
a very insecure state.

"Hallo!" exclaimed Webb, who with true scouting instinct had been
examining the ground. "Look here; someone has been here recently.
We're just converging upon the track of a couple of men and a led
camel."

"Yes," agreed Osborne, "and Europeans, too; or at any rate not
barefooted felaheen or sandalled Arabs. Well, I suppose they have a
perfect right to come here, as much as we have--perhaps more if they
have fixed up their abode in this desirable suburban residence."

"There's the camel," said the Sub, indicating the humped animal
which, hobbled in characteristic Arab fashion, was standing in the
shade of a partly shattered wall. "No signs of the owners. We'll have
to be careful, old man. We don't want to intrude upon these fellows
if they are engaged in their devotions. If they are Mohammedans they
are bound to be pretty sensitive as far as the presence of
unbelievers is concerned."

For the last hundred yards the two chums maintained silence. Their
footfalls made no sound on the soft sand. At the lofty entrance they
paused. The dense shadows, in contrast to the powerful slanting rays
of the sun, made it impossible to see what was within the place until
their eyes grew accustomed to the violent transition from the glare
to a deep gloom.

Suddenly Webb grasped his companion's arm.

"Hist!" he whispered.

His trained ear had caught the faint cackle of a wireless apparatus.

For some moments the chums stood motionless. The sounds came from an
apartment either built in the thick walls or else in a raised
outbuilding. Presently the message ended, and the two men began to
engage in conversation, speaking in Arabic--a language of which both
Webb and Osborne knew but a few words, acquired during their brief
stay in Port Said and Alexandria.

Both officers drew their revolvers. Clearly this was a time for
action. The ruins were not a Government telegraphic post. Since the
Western Egyptian Frontier campaign that ended in the defeat of the
somewhat formidable Senussi rising, a quantity of wireless gear,
known to have been smuggled ashore with other warlike stores for the
use of the enemy, had been unaccounted for. So thorough had been the
methods adopted by the Turks and their German taskmasters, that even
the nomad Arabs of the Tripolitan hinterland had been instructed in
the use of the most modern form of telegraphy.

When sufficiently accustomed to the gloom, Osborne advanced
cautiously, Webb following at his heels. Guided by the sounds of
conversation they crossed the floor, where the dust of years lay
ankle-deep, until they came to a flight of stone steps, flanked on
either side by gigantic stone images representing two grotesque
Egyptian divinities, seated with their hands resting on their knees
and their orbless eyes staring blankly. So smooth were the carvings
that they might have been chiselled yesterday, instead of several
centuries before the Christian era.

Up the flight of stairs the two officers crept. The illicit
operators, still engaged in an animated conversation, were unaware of
their presence until with a bound Osborne entered a small room on a
level with the roof of the portico, and covered them with his
revolver.

Even as he did so he recognized one of the men as Georgeos Hymettus,
the Greek spy, who in the disguise of Alfonzo y Guzman Perez had
furnished the U-boat officers with information concerning the
movements of shipping at Gibraltar, and who had so nearly been laid
by the heels by Osborne and Webb during their adventurous trip to
Algeciras.

"The world is small, my festive Hymettus," observed Osborne suavely.
"Now, kindly put your hands up and give no trouble."

CHAPTER XXI

"A Proper Lash Up"

FINDING himself covered by Webb's pistol, the Greek's companion
promptly extended both arms above his head as a token of surrender.

The fellow was attired in characteristic Bedouin dress. His face was
of a deep olivine, his features being partly concealed by a heavy
black beard and by the front of his burnous. In the folds of his
voluminous sash were thrust an automatic pistol, and a couple of
knives of Arab manufacture protected by sheaths of undressed leather.

"Take charge of that gentleman's armoury, old man," said Osborne. "It
seems most discourteous to deprive such a meek and mild old buffer of
his playthings, but needs must!"

Webb complied, dexterously removing the knives; but, just as he was
taking possession of the pistol, the latter slipped from his grasp
and clattered on the stone floor. With a deafening report one of the
cartridges exploded.

In a trice the wily Hymettus saw his chance and took it. With a swift
sideward movement he interposed the body of the Arab between himself
and the muzzle of Osborne's revolver; then turning, he dashed for a
narrow doorway with the Lieutenant in pursuit.

"About turn; off you go!" ordered Webb, unconsciously addressing his
prisoner in English. "No hanky-panky tricks, mind, or I'll shoot!"

He pointed to the opening through which the Greek and Osborne had
vanished. The Arab obeyed, still keeping his hands above his head.

The doorway opened upon the flat roof of the portico. Without was an
expanse of stone slabs, roughly fifty feet by ten. In front and on
one side a parapet of about thirty inches in height afforded
protection from a sheer drop of thirty feet to the ground. On the
remaining side no such wall existed, owing to the partial collapse of
the masonry. Where the portico had fallen, the face of the building
was pitted with holes, caused by the wrenching away of the dovetailed
stones. Each aperture formed a convenient foothold, and from this
hazardous path to safety Hymettus ran. Could he but make his
precarious way along the sheer face of the wall, comparative safety
awaited him, for beyond was a place where one man could defy a
hundred unless his assailants were provided with ladders.

But at the brink of the riven masonry the Greek paused irresolute.
The sheer drop had more terrors than the weapon of his pursuer.
Before he could finally make up his mind, Osborne, laying aside his
revolver, gripped him by the neck and laid him on his back.

Hymettus made no attempt at resistance, but the Lieutenant, mindful
of the previous encounter on Spanish territory, was taking no further
chances. With a sailor's deftness he bound the spy's arms behind his
back, and secured his ankles with a length of leather belt that
enabled the prisoner to make a stride of a bare eighteen inches.

"That's all serene," remarked Osborne with a tone of relief, as he
regained his feet and took possession of his revolver once more.
"Now, old man, we've a good ten miles to tramp, with two villainous
rascals for company."

"How about the camel?" enquired Webb.

"I haven't overlooked the fact," rejoined the Lieutenant. "It's not
much use to us as a mode of conveyance. After our meteor-like flight
from the backs of those donkeys, I don't fancy an aerial perch on a
ship of the desert. Humanitarian reasons won't permit us to leave the
beast to die of starvation in this sand-blown spot. We'll make the
Greek ride, and that white-livered Arab will conduct the brute. If
they attempt to sheer off--well, that's where our revolvers will come
in handy."

"And the wireless gear?" asked the Sub.

"Let it stop as evidence. The Royal Engineers will see to that
to-morrow. Now, best foot for'ard: it's a long, long way to
Alexandria."

To his unbounded relief Osborne convoyed the prisoners into the open.
He was unfeignedly glad to get clear of the frowning walls of the
ruined building, with its labyrinth of side passages and weird nooks
and crannies.

"Now then, don't lag," said Webb sharply, addressing the Arab, who
seemed loath to keep up with his fellow-prisoner.

The man shot a curious glance at his captor and stood stock-still.

"No, you don't," continued Webb, giving the prisoner a sturdy shove.
"We mean business, my bearded friend. Thank goodness I have a pistol
in my hand and you haven't. I wouldn't trust you with a halfpenny."

Thus urged, the Arab resumed his pace, until they came to the spot
where the camel was hobbled.

"I suppose the Greek hasn't any weapons concealed about him?"
enquired Webb.

"Trust me for that," was the Lieutenant's reply. "I passed my hands
over his carcass right enough. Now then, Ben Hazi Notion, or whatever
your tally happens to be, bear a hand and hoist this rascal up."

The Arab spoke a few words to the camel. The animal immediately
crouched on the ground.

"I say, this condemned nigger understands English," declared Osborne.
"He knew exactly what I said. Now, how far is it to Alexandria?" he
asked, addressing the Bedouin.

But the latter's face wore a mask of imperturbability. When the
question was repeated, he rolled his eyes and raised his hands with a
gesture of utter incomprehensibility.

"He must have guessed what I meant," commented Osborne as he signed
to the Arab to make the camel regain its feet.

Progress was tediously slow. The camel would not be hurried, while
the two Englishmen found that the sand was growing more and more
fatiguing to their feet as mile after mile was covered in the still
hot sunshine.

The Arab trudged stolidly, holding the gaily coloured head-rope of
the ship of the desert. At intervals the Greek would give furtive
glances around the horizon, as if he expected help to be forthcoming
from some quarter of the trackless desert.

By the time the weary officers reached the outskirts of the
cotton-fields the sun was low in the west, and the lengthening
shadows betokened the fact that soon it would be night. A few of the
felaheen peasants, still toiling, paused in their work to contemplate
the unusual spectacle of a couple of Englishmen trudging at the tail
end of a camel, while a Greek--there were many such in Alexandria
--rode, seemingly in indolent ease, upon the animal's back.

Ahead, silhouetted against the sky, could be discerned the lofty
lighthouse of Ras - el - Tin, dominating the slender minarets, and
the masts of the shipping in the harbour. Just then the still air was
rent by the shrill blast of a bugle. The sound was taken up in other
parts of the town, while, as if to emphasize the contrast,'twixt East
and West, the voices of the muezzins calling the Faithful to prayer
could be faintly distinguished amidst the warlike notes of the
bugles.

[Illustration: "PROGRESS WAS TEDIOUSLY SLOW"]

"I won't be sorry to have a jolly good meal and a rest," remarked
Osborne. "We'll have to be sharp if we are to get in before sunset.
With two slippery customers like these, our work will be cut out to
prevent them giving us the slip."

"It's only that Greek rascal that worries me," said Webb. "The other
fellow doesn't seem to have the courage of a worm, the sagacity of a
bat, or the energy of a snail. Hallo, here's a squad of 'Gippy
troops!"

Marching at the quick step affected by the native African troops, the
white-clad soldiers drew near, all but the leading files enveloped in
clouds of dust. At their head were two British officers in white
tropical uniforms, and wearing the scarlet tarboosh of the Egyptian
Government service.

Seeing the two naval men approach with their bound prisoners, the
officer in command ordered the troops to halt.

"Hallo, what game has he been up to?" enquired the Major, indicating
the secured Hymettus. "Trying to rob you, and caught a Tartar, eh?"

Briefly Osborne explained the situation, adding that he would be
greatly obliged if the prisoners could be handed over to the custody
of the military until the Lieutenant could report the facts to the
Senior Naval Officer.

"Certainly," was the reply. "I'll furnish a subaltern's guard. Mr.
Fordyce!"

"Sir!" replied an alert, bronzed Second-lieutenant.

"These two men are to be marched back under escort. See that they are
placed in the guard-room. You will be responsible for their safe
custody."

At an order from a tall, smiling-faced, native sergeant, who appeared
to take a delight in having a rascally Greek in his charge, Georgeos
Hymettus descended from his lofty perch. Surrounded by men with fixed
bayonets he was hurried off to a distance of fifty yards, while other
soldiers took up their position around the Arab prisoner.

The latter, now that his companion in misfortune was out of ear-shot,
addressed a few rapid sentences in Arabic to the British Major. Then,
to Osborne's and Webb's astonishment, the officer drew them aside, at
the same time halting the escort and signing to the Arab to follow.

"The courage of a worm, the sagacity of a bat, the energy of a snail,
by Jove! Gentlemen, I begin to feel particularly cheap."

Osborne stood stock-still, dumb with amazement. Webb, hardly able to
realize the situation, looked at the speaker with ill-disguised
astonishment. The utter surprise of being reminded of his own words,
by a man who appeared to be a genuine Bedouin, literally took the
wind out of his sails.

"Thanks for a very pleasant afternoon!" continued the disguised
prisoner. "It is indeed most unfortunate that your misplaced zeal
prompted you to raid friend Georgeos's secret wireless station. I've
been on his track for weeks. I may as well introduce myself as Major
Ferriter, of the Intelligence Staff. If necessary, my friend Major
Scott here will guarantee my _bona fides_."

"For weeks?" echoed Osborne. "Then why didn't you nab the spy before?
He must have been doing tons of mischief."

"Not so much as you have done by chipping in," replied Major
Ferriter. "Unwittingly, of course, but none the less unfortunate. I
assume that what I tell you will be treated in strict confidence. For
nearly two months the authorities have been aware of the Greek spy's
activities. He was shadowed from Barcelona to Athens, and thence to
Port Said. I was instructed to keep in touch with him, and as luck
would have it I succeeded. In this disguise I completely hoodwinked
him; lived with him; assisted him at his work of espionage--only I
took care to transmit the messages sent by wireless from the German
U-boats to the Eastern Mediterranean myself. It paid the Government
handsomely to let the fellow pursue his activities. It enabled us to
account for nearly a dozen hostile submarines, and now you've put the
hat on it all."