“The enemy?” said Mr. Smith. “My own people?” He glanced round with sudden pride. “My people are your enemies, and I am one of them. I am a German!”
“Oh, are you?” said Dixon, weakly.
“But you don’t talk like one,” Jim blurted.
“No—why should I, when I do not wish? I have lived much in England; English is as familiar to me as German. But I have but one country, and that is the Fatherland.”
“Then it’s a pity you didn’t keep off a decent British ship,” said Dixon, wrathfully. “It makes me sick to think of you on board, making friends with every one—and doing your best to get us sunk. Women and kids, too.”
“Our ships do not send people down with the ships they sink,” said the German, proudly. “For the rest—it is war. If you were on a German ship you would be glad of a chance to do as I have tried to do. War cannot be made with kid gloves. If I sink you—then I have done a service to Germany. There is not any more to be said.”
“Glad you think so,” Dixon answered; “but I fancy you’ll find there’s rather more. However, it’s the captain’s business now.” He called the sailors. “There’s an empty cabin in the next alley-way; put this man in there and watch him. He’s not to go out under any pretext whatever.”
Mr. Smith disappeared, marching proudly between his captors, his head held high. Dixon looked after him.
“Rum little beggar,” he said. “Wonderful what a lot they think of their precious Fatherland. I travelled through it once, and I certainly didn’t want to stay—their beastly language gives a man toothache! Well, that’s a good job done, and thanks be to Morpheus, the ship is quiet. A single revolver shot doesn’t make much noise, and we weren’t noisy, except for that.”
In answer to this cheering reflection, two heads appeared in the doorway.