"Knot it round my arm—yes—there—just above the wrist. Thank God you're strong! Now then, you've got to twist it. Got anything for a lever?"
The only thing I could find was a silver-mounted fountain pen, a Christmas present from Doris the year before. I whipped it into the knot of the handkerchief, turned it round and secured it. The whole thing did not take more than ten seconds. I had hardly finished, when Bernard skipped inside the conning-tower. I followed him. The hatchway slid into its place with a clang, and as we heard another terrific explosion above us, I wrenched the rudder lever over, Bernard signalled below to fill the tanks, and through the portholes I saw the welcome green creep up, the light disappear, and felt the gratings sinking beneath my feet. I shouted down for Dickson—the first name I could think of.
Dickson max. was up in a second.
"Get the bottle of rum," I said, "the Captain's hurt."
It came. I held it to my brother's lips. He took a little and gave one deep groan.
Dickson max. stood like a statue. He never asked a question. It was wonderful.
"Who fired that torpedo?" Bernard asked.
"I did, sir. Mr. Scarlett showed me how."
"You will be pleased to know, Mr. Dickson, that you have sunk the German battleship, Der Friesland, with probably a thousand souls on board. This will be remembered."
"You are hurt, sir?"