Evidently in reply to signal or command all the sailors on the enemy craft ran to the conning tower and vanished inside.
“Called to see if they can repair the leak and submerge!” guessed Dalzell, and passing his conjecture down to the gunners on the spar deck below. “Make submerging a cinch for them!”
Three more shots barked out, almost together. One went a shade wild, one hit the upper hull, but the third was planted just below the water-line.
“Good-bye!” called Dan, derisively.
Then the “Prince’s” steam whistle, with a sufficiently good head of steam this time, sent the recall to the small boats, which immediately put about.
The submarine was sinking fast. Eight or ten men managed to get through the tower to the deck just before the pest sank out of sight.
“Some of those men are swimming,” Dan shouted. “Stand by with lines! We’ll give them a chance! More than they’d do for us, though!”
Several of the German swimmers sank at once. Perhaps they preferred to drown, fearing the tortures that their home papers declared were meted out to submarine sailors by officers of the Allied Powers.
Two enemy seamen, however, were found afloat as the “Prince” drew closer and lay to. Lines were cast to them, both catching hold. The swimmers were then hauled aboard. Dan Dalzell went down to the spar deck in order to question them.
Both were loutishly stupid in appearance, and plainly were badly scared as well. Their ragged, oil-stained uniforms gave them the opposite of smart appearance.