“Nein—no. You can search me.”
Jim kept his grip on his wrists, as he glanced up at the chief officer.
“Are you much hurt, Mr. Dixon?”
“I don’t think so,” said Dixon, a little doubtfully. “Only grazed my arm—it’s bleeding a bit—and deafened me. Oh, Lord, there’s the old lady in the next cabin—I knew we’d have the ship about our ears!” He went out into the alley-way, and they heard his voice patiently. “No, it’s all right, madam—nothing to be alarmed about. No, it’s not a German warship. You’re quite safe. Go to sleep.”
He came back.
“Shut the door, Bob. Prop it with your shoulder. Now we’ll have a look at this gentleman. Stand up there, will you?”
The huddled figure twisted round and struggled to his feet, facing them defiantly.
“Great Scott!” said Dixon weakly. “Why, I thought it was a decent Swede!”
The boys gaped in silence. The short figure, dusty and bedraggled, was Mr. Smith. He stood looking at them, pale, with a black streak across his face; in spite of it—in spite of his stout, panting, dishevelled form—there was something not ignoble about him. He was not at all afraid.
“On the whole, it was foolish of me to fire,” he said. “I am glad you are not hurt.”