Boldig himself hailed—hailed in German. And fortunately for Tom Cameron he replied in the same language. His accent was irreproachable. Had it not been, the German officer might have thought twice about attempting to rescue the lone castaway.
The young American had no idea at first that this was a German-manned steamship—that she had been boldly taken over on the high seas by a gang of German pirates. Yet he was sharp enough to realize almost at once that there was something wrong with her.
No passengers on her decks, no officers on her bridge until this one hailed him, and no crew along her waist watching him. Besides she was coming along at such a crippled gait.
He knew she must be a passenger ship, and the Union Jack at her masthead showed her nationality. But where was she going and why was she not convoyed?
Tom had already seen the smoke of several destroyers or converted trawlers, but had not been himself sighted by their lookouts. This was his first chance of rescue, and he was not at all particular just then who the people were aboard the Admiral Pekhard, as he saw she was named. With that name and under that flag she must be a British ship. As he was drifting in a part of a German Zeppelin, he naturally expected to be taken aboard as a prisoner. Yet he did or said nothing to reveal his true identity for the time being. If they wished to think him a German at first, all right; explanations could come later.
Boldig called three men to man the motor boat that trailed astern. He had to stop the ship’s engines to do this, for steam could not be kept up without the small force of stokers at his command working at top speed through their entire watch. The whole crew were almost exhausted. Those whose watch it was below at this time must be allowed to sleep to recover their strength. It was a ticklish situation in more ways than one.
The Admiral Pekhard began to roll in the trough of the sea. As she rolled toward him Tom could better see her deck and upperworks. He marked a woman’s figure come out of the after companion on the upper deck. She stood there alone and shaded her eyes with her hand as she looked off at him.
The siege Tom Cameron had been through since the Zeppelin was wrecked had racked his body a good deal, but by no means had it weakened his mind. He was sure there was something wrong with this craft. The three men were an hour in tuning up the motor-boat engine and getting that craft near enough to his raft to take Tom aboard.
The latter saw that neither of the three men was an officer. One was Fritz, and he spoke to the castaway in English. But Tom was wary. There was a flaxen-haired, big-bodied fellow who glowered at him and spoke nothing but German.
“You fell with an airship—yes?” this man asked, and Tom nodded.