It was not until the afternoon that Oom Jan told Fortescue of what had occurred. Already strange rumours of varying degrees of accuracy had floated round the ship, but it was unanimously agreed that van Eindhovengen was the hero of the hour.
The spy had contrived to join the draft at Cape Town under the name of Pieter Waas. The real Pieter Waas happened to be a stranger to the rest of the Afrikanders, and, induced to desert by spy, had considerately transferred his name to his doubtful benefactor.
At the court of enquiry the pseudo Waas denied all knowledge of the pocket-book, although van Eindhovengen had seen the man with it in his possession without knowing its sinister import. It was not until it was explained to the Afrikanders that the ownerless book was a means by which they might be sent to the bottom of the sea by a hostile submarine that Oom Jan "rounded" on the spy. At first the fellow strenuously contradicted van Eindhovengen's accusation, but the big Afrikander would not be gainsaid. Suddenly the suspect whipped out a small automatic pistol. Whether it was with the intention of taking his own life or that of his accuser he himself only knew.
Like a flash van Eindhovengen's hand shot out. His powerful fingers gripped the spy's wrist as in a vice. As the pistol dropped from the fellow's limp hand the weapon went off, a bullet grazing the head of the president of the court of enquiry, and rendering him insensible.
"And now," concluded Oom Jan, "the spy is under lock and key. He is a slim smous = rascal (Cape Dutch), but, Allemachte, it is all over with him. Presently, after he has set foot on dry land, a dozen bullets will bid him Hambla gachle. It is a too fitting end to a spy."
"But he hasn't been tried and sentenced yet," remarked Fortescue.
The Afrikander's face fell.
"Surely he is guilty," he said. "Why then waste time over him?"
"It is the Englishman's proud boast that every prisoner shall be given a fair trial," explained Fortescue. "It will be general court martial, no doubt. Thank goodness we New Zealanders are not mixed up in the business. By the by, Malcolm, have you any idea when we arrive at Plymouth? It seems to me that we've been dodging across the Atlantic half a dozen times."
"This is the twenty-eighth day of the voyage," observed Malcolm. "I heard that when the Pomfret Castle was on the ordinary mail service she did the trip in fourteen as regular as clockwork."