An order was issued in German, and the interrogatory went on:
"Where is the captain?"
"Hard to say," some one answered gruffly.
"He's where a British captain can usually be found," said another.
"In these days that 'usually' means at the bottom," retorted the commander of the submarine. "Have you got any papers?"
"Papers?"
"Yes, yes, Dummheit; where are the ship's papers?"
"We'd better ask you," retorted a voice at the stern.
"You'd better keep the tongue civil!" came sharply back, with the first betrayal of flaw in the perfect English.
Two figures coming up on the conning-tower brought with them the diffused light of some open hatchway as they took their stand behind the commander. He showed clearly now, a firm, square-built presence, a beardless round face above the muffler. He said something over his shoulder, and one of the two men just come up, stepped briskly to the commander's side. During those few seconds it seemed mere chance that the torch still lit up the stern of the lifeboat—lit the small, white face with its parted lips and shining eyes, a face so destitute of fear, so charged with sheer burning curiosity, that any sane person might be forgiven for staring hard at what could only be a crass incapacity on a girl's part to comprehend the situation.