While the tramp was losing way the submarine flung about, taking up a position on the vessel's starboard quarter, and on a parallel course.
On the bluff counter of the tramp appeared the words: "Ryan-Berg—Malmo", but at a short distance it was quite evident that the name was painted on a strip of canvas.
"That's good enough, Mr. Fordyce," remarked the Hon. Derek grimly.
"And what's more, sir," added the Sub, "she's an old friend, the Talisman, of Goole. She missed us at point-blank range on one occasion."
"I recollect," agreed the Lieutenant-Commander, "and we pumped out a gallon of lubricating-oil just to encourage her misguided but praiseworthy skipper. Carry on, Mr. Fordyce."
Quickly the boarding-party tumbled into the boat and rowed off to the tramp. Revolver in hand, Fordyce gained her deck, to be greeted by half a dozen Teutons in very motley garb.
"The game's up," exclaimed Fordyce. "We are not bluffed by fresh paint and a canvas name-board."
The prize crew were ordered below, while the former master and a dozen hands were released from captivity.
"You never know your luck," exclaimed the rightful skipper of the Talisman, a bluff, grey-haired salt of the burly, breezy type. "I expected to find myself in a German prison-camp within the next thirty-six hours. A light cruiser nabbed us four miles outside Christiansand harbour. They clapped us under hatches and put a prize crew on board, and a rascally set they are."
"They treated you decently?"