“And what was it you said about young blood?” asked Lord Hastings with a laugh.
The admiral smiled.
“Oh, well,” he said. “We sailors never grow old.”
The two old friends shook hands affectionately, and Lord Hastings took his leave.
All was quiet on the submarine when he went on board, and he turned in at once. Not a man aboard the D-16 that night but slept a well-earned sleep, for the chase of the Austrian submarine, while not so long in itself, had, nevertheless, sapped the energy of all. The strain under which they worked—never knowing when a torpedo would send them all to their deaths—was tremendous.
All were up bright and early the following morning, however, and shortly after 7 o’clock the D-16 got under way. As she swung round and pointed her nose toward the Mediterranean there was a booming of guns from every ship of the French fleet and a cheer from the crews, for word of what the submarine had accomplished had spread rapidly, and officers and men alike joined in a parting ovation.
Through the Adriatic and into the Mediterranean went the British submarine D-16, speeding rapidly upon the surface of the water. Then she turned her head toward the east and Lord Hastings laid a course that, barring accidents, would quickly bring her to the entrance of the Dardanelles, where the allied fleet was still shelling the Turkish fortifications.
As they sped swiftly along, they talked of the war, of past adventures, of what lay in store for each in the future, and of many other things.
“And so Russia is to be given Constantinople,” said Frank.
“Why not?” asked Jack.